The Kosovo Escapade
by Weaveroftalltales
Summary: Two new characters. They head into Kosovo to stop a militia from taking over. Set in 2011.
1. Chapter 1

Warnings: Many incidents of violence, torture scenes, many instances of language, descriptions of combat.

And Manx and Pyre are my own. They're going to be the main characters. There will also be historical mistakes, franchise mistakes, etc. So please just be patient and point them out to me. I've never published a story like this before.

**Note**: This franchise went down because the developers of Devil's Cartel just couldn't stick with our original two heroes. They went for the wrong story, did so poorly, and making the Rios shoots Salem ending canon ruined the franchise. I think that anyone reading this knows this: Salem would never leave Rios. And he wouldn't blame Alice's death on Rios. Thank you for reading! If I make any franchise history mistakes or historical mistakes, please tell me. Feel free to DM me any feedback.

**The Kosovo Escapade**

**Chapter 1**

A man, about 26 years old, walked into a firing range, ready to shoot anything that moved. Two men, curious onlookers, watched in apparent confusion as he stood there perfectly still. He walked forward, the weight of the HK 416 he was borrowing bearing down on his hands. Lights suddenly flickered to life as the two men sitting behind the one-way bulletproof glass continued watching.

"Alright. Pretty straightforward. Just shoot the targets. It could not be easier. Really. Just shout to give us some kind of signal when you're ready," One of the men said.

"HOT!" Max shouted at the top of his lungs and he raised the borrowed H&K 416 rifle. The first target popped up. A controlled burst of 3 bullets hurtled into the target at breakneck speed! A second target popped up, only to receive a bullet to the head and go down again. 2 more targets popped up, only to receive 3 shot bursts against each of them.

"I'm out!" Max said, reloading his weapon almost blindingly fast! He grabbed the borrowed pistol and got ready for the next portion of the assessment.

"Right. Now, we want to see how easily you can secure the objective. We've placed a dummy at the end of the room. Armed guards are everywhere and you must extract the hostage. Your job is to do it quickly and quietly. Am I understood?" The other of the two men asked. A camera watching over Max, he shouted: "YES, SIR!" loudly. He looked on the table at a paintball gun.

"You… Sirs, I'm sorry to ask, but you can't be serious a paintball gun? Really?" asked Max.

"We're serious. Now get it done and don't question it," The first man presiding man said. A shout of "Yes, sir!" and it was on. This time, real people were sent in to act as guards. Walls came up and made a confusing maze. He grabbed the paintball gun. He fixed a nearby scope on it. He went in the first hallway.

A guard turned, only to be shot before he could say a thing.

A door to a big open room lay ahead. Max kicked it open. But, he did something cunning this time. He shouted that he gave up and put his hands up. The guards began to raise their paintball guns. A small, green metal object fell to the ground. Max watched as the guards were distracted by it. He ran behind cover, shooting the nearest men with quick bursts of bright blue paint to silence them. Man after man fell around them to the continuous paintball gunfire and the paint grenade had splattered three guards.

After about half an hour of navigating rooms and through trial and error, Max had sketched out a map of what he had gone through so far. A camera picked this up.

Max continued with the paintball gun until he reached a big, strange room. Odd, the lights were off. A large padlock secured the door. Even in his uniform and protective paintball gear, the sweat lines became visible around his armpits and chest. Using a fire extinguisher nearby, he broke the glass and opened the door inside. He turned the light switch on.

Right away, some 20 guards with airsoft rifles jumped out! Max looked up at the camera. An airsoft shot slammed into his leg!

"What is this!?" He asked. The speakers responded.

"New lesson, rookie. Expect the unexpected!" One of the voices, Salem's voice, shouted, in between laughs.

"Salem, when was this added?" Rios asked.

"The moment I made the executive decision training would be harder," Salem said.

"Did we ever talk about this?" Rios asked.

"No… But you told me I was picking people up too easily. So here you go," Salem said.

Another shot hit Max in the leg! He yelled in pain. So, he dove behind a large table that had been knocked over. He grabbed a paint grenade. It banged on the wall. He shot it with an airsoft rifle he picked up from a downed and well-armored guard! It exploded spectacularly! The paint was everywhere and guards began leaving the room.

The potential recruit moved forward again as 5 more guards stood in opposition. The first let loose a hail of fire. One man fell to this hail of gunfire! The three others were sneaking up as one man moved to relieve the current shooter.

A guard snuck up and put a fake but terrifyingly realistic knife to Max's throat. He kicked him as hard as he could, having barely escaped his grip! A roundhouse kick to the head and the guard was on the ground! The 3 others saw as the guard was shot where he lay! He picked up the knife. The sneaking guards didn't see where the man had gone. He snuck up to the one shooting. The officer.

Without skipping a beat, he put the officer in a chokehold.

"Drop 'em! Drop 'em now, or I'll give him an entire magazine!" Max shouted. The two men surrendered, slid their airsoft rifles over, and put their hands up. He released the officer as he moved to hold all three guards up. He soon led them on the long walk out of the maze.

A short time later, the three men were let go by the room where the two men, Rios and Salem, were sitting.

"How was that, sirs?" Manx asked.

"Alright soldier, at ease," Rios said. Max went into an at ease position almost instantly, his discipline and drilling dictating something like that to be second nature.

"Nice job, soldier. Now, if Rios will let me, which I think he won't…" Salem said, sad to be perhaps unable to accept someone for arbitrary reasons, "then I'd officially like to welcome you to T.W.O. Unless you have any objections, Rios?"

"I have none. Corporal, that was outstanding. A little rash, but it got done what we were looking for. Well done and welcome to T.W.O," Rios said. Max reached out and shook each of their hands.

"Well, soldier, now that you're in, we have to give you a new name. Like… Like… Blaze," Salem said, happy to get his new and creative idea out into the room.

"Uh… Maybe. Anything else, sirs?" Asked the Corporal.

"Yes. What about… Dynamo?" asked Rios.

"And you said I was bad at names. Where you from, kid? Give us something to work with here."

"Uh… The Isle of Man, sir," the Corporal said.

"Rios! Where the hell is that?"

"In between Northern Ireland and the rest of the U.K. And don't shout inside."

"Oh… What's something we can do to give this Brit here a decent, non-Rios inspired name? Something like… I dunno…Manx!" Salem shouted.

"I like that, sir," The Corporal said, with a very non-British sounding accent of someone who lived in Grand Forks and Platteville for so long. (Platteville WI. However, not the funny Northwoods sounding kind. Just a normal, but slow midwestern drawl.)

Manx, you see, had lived in Grand Forks when he first moved to America with his family but came to spend the latter half of his childhood in Platteville, as there's some Manx influence there.

"You're welcome, Manx. See, Rios? See what happens when I get to pick names? Huh? Huh?"

Rios seemed to be acting a little bit pouty, as he stayed silent and shook his head slowly at Salem, as though he wasn't getting away with that next time.

"We're a little low on manpower right now. T.W.O. just got off the ground. By next week, you should end up with a partner," Rios said. Manx nodded in understanding.

Manx reached out and shook each of their hands, then was directed to a secret door they opened, which lead into a large, wide room full of masks and tactical gear. He examined them thoroughly and hadn't the slightest idea of which one to pick.

The Corporal walked out of the building after about an hour. But he had been accepted! This was great!


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Two Weeks Later…**

Max had found a letter in the mail addressed to him the night before.

**Dear Max,**

Please read below for information (because that's obvious) relating to your newly selected partner, Kevin Pier, one of the men you trained with before. Kevin has been found to be the ideal partner after intensive observation of the two of you in training. He has chosen to be called by the codename Pyre. (Lame and makes no sense.) After a detailed background check and analysis of your service record and his, it has been determined via an executive decision that Kevin would be the ideal partner for you. His service record reads wonderfully, just like yours. (Well, I personally like it. Think you're a kiss-up, but I like it.) Come on Saturday morning at 9:00 a.m. (Wouldn't blame you if you tried to sleep in and skip. I probably will. Recruits are inspected by Rios, but God knows he'll demand that I show up.) That way, we can get everything sorted out. (Because yes, we do work on Saturdays, unfortunately for me.)

**Sincerely,**

**Elliot Salem**

**T.W.O. Co-Founder**

Max returned to the headquarters some two weeks later. He had selected a mask with a triskelion on the red background where his forehead was and two three-legged logos of the Isle of Man on either side of his mask.

Manx walked up to the receptionist's desk.

"Okay. I'll tell him. Understood," The receptionist said. "Then you have yourself a nice day, sir."

Faster than a bullet train going downhill, she turned to the masked visitor before her. He lifted up his mask and smiled. Best to be polite now. The receptionist looked at him and noticed the strong young man that stood before her.

"Can I help you with anything, sir?" The receptionist asked in a friendly way. His nerves melted away.

"Actually, yes," Manx told her. "Yes, you can."

"And with what would that be?" She asked.

"I am just wondering…" Manx said as his nerves began to make him lose his train of thought. "...If you can tell me what room Mr. Salem and Mr. Rios have Specialist Pier in."

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the receptionist.

"I do. 1:45 P.M., under Max."

"Found you. Okay. Upstairs, take a right, a left, then the third door on your left," She said to Manx. "You can't miss it," She smiled.

"Thank you, ma'am," Manx said as he made a move for the stairs.

"Good luck! You're gonna need it…" She said under her breath behind the giant computer she had on the gray desk. The floor was white linoleum and windows stood on every side except behind her, sending in loads of sunlight, but designed so it was in an ideal amount.

Near her was also an inviting waiting room with a sky blue couch and clear glass coffee table. Beside it lay a separate door into an office, which was really two adjoining administrative offices with soundproof walls and one-way windows, so no one could see in. Rios and Salem's personal offices, which they'd decorated and organized to their preferences. Both had immediate access to a staging room and one of many shooting ranges, respectively. Several very nice black and leather armchairs surrounded the table.

_Okay. Right. Got it. Then left. Done. Okay, third door, third door. Aha! Found it!_ He knocked. Several men were talking in there, he could tell. He opened the door slowly.

"Hey, Max. Have a seat," Salem greeted him. "And meet Kevin, your new partner! Now, you have someone to kiss up to you!" Salem finished in a tired and cranky voice.

"Sorry about him. He's had no sleep for the past few days, we've been getting everything set for Armenia," Rios said like a dog owner whose dog just decided to defecate on someone else's lawn.

Max nodded his understanding.

"Hey… You're Max, right?" Kevin asked. "The name's Kevin. But feel free to call me Pyre. Nice to see you," he continued with his strong jawline moving rapidly, exposing his nerves while he gave a strong and fast handshake. He was incredibly well toned. He stood at roughly 5 '10 and 145 pounds. Shorter than Manx, who was roughly 6 '0. His gelled back blonde hair and brown eyes looked upon Manx with curiosity and wonder. Excitement for getting to finally meet the man who he would serve alongside.

"Max," Manx responded. "Nice to finally meet you again, Kevin." They both sat back down. Manx's blue eyes and brown hair gave away nerves everyone else in the room picked up on instantly. His muscular build gave away the body of a runner with long and toned legs. He wasn't ripped, but he had enough muscles to get by on his pale skin. His handshake had been strong and warm, which gave Kevin a good impression and had put him at ease.

"Right. Now that you've met each other, can we please get to the task at hand?" Salem asked. "Thank you. Now, we're gonna run some tests. Nothing too scary except for all the needles. And the scale. And that other thing where Rios punches each of you in the stomach for showing up too late for his liking. Unless he lets me do that one because I already passed? And the other test where he gives you to an old quack to see if you two will work. And that other one where he calls you at midnight to tell you the travel plan then comes to your apartment at 3:00 A.M. to talk about I can't even remember what. Those tests. And I would love to take them again!" Salem finished in an angry and hungover voice.

"Sorry. He may be a little hungover. I bet him a beer he couldn't take a punch in the stomach from me as hard as I could hit him. He took it and well… He took the beer. One thing led to another and voila!" Rios said. "Oh, and he did show up too late. He has a good memory, even when hungover."

The other men nodded their agreement to that remark, he seemed to recall events quite clearly.

Rios started laughing. "On to the exams."

"We gonna go see the quack?" asked Pyre. "Because I'm having a hard time understanding why you need to see how our brains work. I think we're fine."

"Just company policy man, relax. Okay? Can you do that for me?" asked Manx.

"I've always found I don't really know a man until I get inside his head," Rios said. "And walk around a bit. I used this crap on Salem. I can assure you, it most definitely works. He's the guinea pig, so if it hadn't, we'd have tried something worse." he casually finished, getting bothered and critical looks from the two other men.

"I just… I just don't like needles, okay? They're sharp and they hurt. I don't know what they're putting in me," Pyre stated.

"Just think of it like this," Manx explained. "It's just a needle. Only seven inches long, probably fitted with some weird virus. You're only going to be the host to some strange parasite that they wanna test on you. Okay? So, be weird and ask for your shot in the rump. You strike me as the kind of person who would enjoy that kind of thing. My brothers have always said that hurts less, too."

"You know, you really aren't helping. Thinking about the fact that all the weird things you see in the movies that happen in your body with organs and stuff? And how all those gross things work? Disturbing to think that's all inside of me," Pyre said. By this point, they had reached the doctor, who was not a medical doctor, but a doctor of psychology. Manx smiled and greeted him.

"Hello, boys," The doctor said pleasantly. "Mr. Rios, sir, who have you brought me today?"

"Manx or Max and Pyre, aka Kevin," Rios said.

"I see. Kevin, won't you sit down? I don't bite. Well, I haven't recently," The doctor said to only Pyre.

"Sorry doc, I never really liked doctors. They make me nervous. I don't like needles. So, I'm sorry if I do anything drastic. I'm just nervous," Pyre said.

"That's okay," The doctor responded calmly.

Rios stood over Kevin. He was starting to remind him of Salem. Short, wiry, strong, and nervous. How had he maintained control of himself for this long? Salem would have put forth some serious expletives and probably broken something.

"So let's get this started. Max, I have been given a service record of each of you. I must say, yours is quite nice. It says only good things. Are you a permanent citizen?" The doctor asked.

"No, sir. I am not. I have to get this thing renewed in about a year. I am also 25," Manx said as he held up his green card from his wallet. His mask was on a coffee table in front of him, right by a mug of warm coffee.

"Have you attempted to apply for permanent citizenship?" The doctor asked.

"Yes, sir. They're still going through other people's papers right now, though. I got a notice back saying they've misplaced it and are looking for it," Manx told the doctor.

"Alright. What is your former branch of service?" asked the doctor.

"102nd airborne. Screaming eagles, sir. 2004-2008. We fight and we win. We're the best," Manx told the doctor confidently.

"I've no doubt of that. And please don't call me sir. I am not superior to you in any way. As long as we're talking, we are equals. Do you understand?" asked the doctor.

Manx nodded.

"Alright. Now for a hypothetical. A man is the proven leader of an insurgent organization. The payment bonus for his death is well over several million dollars. But he is proven to be holding a large number of people hostage, several thousand. Many are children. You have to show him sacrifice, honor, that people are still good at heart. That sacrifice is your partner. If people are still good, he figures you will do the right thing, killing your partner. If you do so, he will leave the small city and the people are free. Now, attempting to kill him might trigger the order to murder the hostages. So what do you do?" the doctor asked.

"Doctor, what question is this? I don't think this is one that we agreed you would be using. We talked about this, we wouldn't bring up anything about Shanghai," Rios said.

"It is part of determining whether or not we can recruit this man, sir. It is the sign of whether or not we should have faith in him. And since you have said that you would not question my assessments, I ask you to remember my decision."

Salem, in the nearby hall, heard the conversation. His rookies, loyal men, deserved to know the truth. If they were going into this line of work, they deserved to know they would be judged. They would be hated and they would become outcasts. And the organization for which they worked was black and white. This was not a clean line of work. Many deaths would be by their hands. And that was one truth he would never forget. Salem entered the room to participate in the conversation.

"Don't bring up Shanghai my ass! No, Tyse. These rookies have to know what happened. They have to know the truth. You sacrificed me. I laid my life down! And for fucking what, for some civilians!? You're my brother! I trusted you! I have NEVER trusted, had a brother like I had you, Tyse. Let these rookies know ONE thing and one thing only! Loyalty is everything. Everything! I don't care about anything else. I never had a reliable, loyal friend in my life. Rios, you were that. All of it. So let these rookies know this: You NEVER sacrifice your partner. He is your brother until death! And Rios, maybe you're not mine anymore," Salem finished.

"Elliot, I... I'm really, truly sorry. But innocents don't deserve to die because of some madman with a nuclear trigger. Especially not 7 million of them. If my men learn anything, it will be the importance of civilians. We do NOT involve them in anything. If they don't have to suffer because of us, then they won't. And that is final," Rios said, nodding at the end of his remark to a wide-eyed and crying Salem.

The two men left the room, leaving Manx and Pyre with the doctor.

"Now, about that decision. You're an asset that the company cannot have let them down. You're an incredibly smart man, son. Any decision you make is probably made from your best instincts. Now tell me. What do you do?" asked the doctor in full seriousness and in a calm expression.

"I… don't know. I would try to do both. But Pyre? He can't die, we agreed to work together and risk our lives for one another. No matter what. The airborne rangers taught me the value of a fellow soldier. That man is your brother. And you never lose sight of that, so I would save him," Manx said.

"I respect your decision, Corporal Cowell. Many men would have broken down in that situation. I could see either approach." The doctor said, "Well done."

He turned and gave a plain expression to Pyre.

"Your former branch of service?" the doctor asked.

"Army rangers. 75th regiment, 2003 to 2007," said Pyre.

"I can tell from your records you're also a naturalized citizen. Interesting. Age 26. Did you serve in a combat role?" asked the doctor.

"I did, doctor. Specialist, U.S. Army Rangers, 75th Regiment," Pyre said. He was trying to read the doctor. His nerves were exposed. Soon, the fatal questions would come. Whether or not this partnership was going to happen.

"Excellent. Then I reckon you and Max should get along well. Now, on to the serious questions. You're smart, too, so this shouldn't be hard for you and I also trust any decision you make is made from your best judgment," the doctor said.

Pyre nodded. He started taking deep breaths. He hoped to be paired with Manx. He had a feeling. A good feeling about him that he couldn't explain.

"Alright. What is more important to you in a combat operation, information or the well being of your troops, Specialist?" asked the doctor.

_Specialist… He knows what happened with my squad... Great… This is going to go downhill fast!_

"Well, are we behind enemy lines? Is it just the platoon I'm in? Where are we and what information do we have?" asked Pyre cautiously.

"You're behind enemy lines. No one is coming to save you unless they can find you. Are you willing to lose men trying to find a way out or do you stay put and wait to be located?" the doctor asked.

"We try and find a way out. We're in it together. We can make it out if we work together. We may be at severe risk if we try, but if we just stay put, we're guaranteed to die through combat and starvation. So in this case, I would work more for information on a way out, so the casualties can be prevented," Pyre said.

"I see. Not what I was expecting. You seem to be a fighter. Another situation, then," the doctor said, dismissing the answer from before.  
"Your partner is in position. There is a not yet dug in enemy you are to maneuver upon. However, you don't know their numbers. You have the element of surprise and night is falling. Do you attack right away or risk being scouted out and engaged in the day?" asked the doctor.

"We attack. They don't know we're coming. We can maneuver on them and strike unexpected blows. We can do a lot of damage for high risk, but not higher than in the day. In fact, I'd argue our chances would be a bit better at night," Pyre said.

"Okay. Another scenario, then. I notice you are a very high risk, high reward fighter. Okay. You are out in the open. Minimal cover. Your partner is down and badly wounded. Getting to him would be almost impossible. However, there's a mortar firing. A family trying to escape is trapped from the rubble the mortar left! The little bit of cover you have is quickly wearing away. The mortar has briefly stopped firing. Your partner is out in the open and far away. The family is within shouting range. Do you help them or your partner?" the doctor asked seriously.

"Time is of the essence. Say it now. Your cover is almost gone, soldier," The doctor said.

The doctor gave Pyre roughly two minutes. He spoke.

"I… I can't decide. I cannot make this decision," Pyre informed the room.

"I trust any decision you make will be the right one. Now, what did you decide?" probed the doctor.

Pyre began sweating bullets! Rios walked closer and stood over him. He got up and was ready to speak! His nerves were completely exposed! Anyone could see the weight this decision was having on him. The coffee table quaked slightly as he forcefully moved.

"I don't know. I don't know. My partner. The civilians probably can't be saved due to the rubble falling. I may as well run into the gunfire, getting into rubble that'll start falling feels about as difficult," Pyre said.

"Alright. I respect your decision. Well done, Specialist Pier. But in combat, such hesitation would cost you both dearly. Be careful then," The doctor said.

The doctor looked firmly at Pyre. Manx frowned slightly and could feel the pressure.

He smiled at Pyre. Pyre looked toward him.

"Pyre, I have to be honest. I could not make either choice. You were brave in that situation. The doctor was right. Whatever decision you make, it's completely justified."

The pair, after a brief conversation and with a calmer, non-crying Salem, re-emerged.

Rios noticed what Manx said. And he liked what he saw. They could be partners together. This could work. This would work. And that was the best part of that realization. It was left to Salem to interrupt and ruin his train of thought, as he was so accustomed to.

"Well, Tyse? The rookies serving together or not?"

"Doctor, do you think they can serve together?" Rios asked.

"They can. They would both protect one another above all else. In my books, sir, that's everything."

"Yes, they are, Salem. Now put that beer in this fridge, where I can see it! We were supposed to stay and help with this. We agreed on that. But nevermind. We'll discuss this later. In the meantime, what jobs do we have no one on?" Rios asked.

Salem referenced a handy orange file folder in his hand he labeled "Jobs", which made him feel like a lame desk worker. And he hated that. But he did feel kind of cool for having gotten some real work done.

"Let's see… Let's see… Can you name five, Rios?" Salem probed.

"Salem, I can't name five of them. You were in charge of maintaining and updating those. Remember?" Rios asked with genuine curiosity.

"Right, right… Yeah. Maintain. I never heard you say that," Salem shot back.

"What did you hear me say?" Rios asked with confusion.

"Well, judging by the fact that I was hungover very recently, I think I have it… Let's see here... "

"You do have the list, right? We need that list, Salem."

"Here it is, Rios. Right where I left it."

Salem pulled the list out of the nearest storage location, a large cooler.

"How does the list… What happened, Salem?" Rios asked.

"It just… happened? You know how I am when I'm hungover, Tyse. I lose things."

"Anything else in there you've misplaced?"

"Well… You car keys, too, if I'm remembering correctly. God does my head hurt."

"Salem, give me my keys. Then go find some paperwork, you were supposed to file some of our taxes. I'll do the rest tonight before we leave, just get it started, okay?"

"Okay, boss. See you guys later," Salem said as he started to leave the room.

Salem suddenly threw Rios the list on his way out like a frisbee, a frisbee that contained the current jobs. They were in the following countries: Kosovo, Serbia, Indonesia, Malaysia, Bolivia, Mexico, Cuba, Angola, Mozambique, Iran, Afghanistan, Tajikistan, and Azerbaijan, and Nagorno Karabakh.

Rios handed them the list. "Which one looks best to you guys? I have no preference."

Pyre looked first and pretty much knew right away which one he wanted. "What about Malaysia? That sounds nice."

Manx looked again. "Yeah… no. How about Mexico?"

"No. Just… No. I am willing to compromise: We do somewhere that isn't in the middle of a god damn desert," Pyre said.

"I'd do Kosovo. Probably wouldn't be that hard," Manx told the other man.

Pyre nodded in agreement. Rios grabbed the file and read off the job description.

"Ok, Kosovo. There are major tensions right now. A businessman is seeing the country being turned upside down and destroyed by a militant organization. Quite possibly sent by the Serbian government itself. The businessman's men have been fired upon and they and the security forces can't hold out alone in spite of his efforts. The UN had refused to send help, assuming there will be war. Also, there's a high bonus for killing the suspected leader. Which you will not be taking, my own men will not be damaging my company's reputation. We've got one of our interpreters, whom you'll meet at your hotel. And remember, NO GUNS in the capital city."

"We can do that. You in, Pyre?" asked Manx.

"Yeah, I'm in. Let's do this!"

"Excellent. Your plane comes at 09:00 hours sharp, private jet. It comes right at this location, so don't be late. If we're on schedule, you two will arrive at O'hare International Airport at 1130 hours. From there, you board a plane to Madrid, Spain. You catch the next flight at about 19:30 hours, then land in Pristina, Kosovo at 03:30. Stay at the arranged hotel after you talk to your contact and spend the day exploring. Note that this schedule has been arranged for a while. I just had to call in some favors," Rios said.

As Manx finished writing, he showed Pyre the comprehensive, 18-hour travel schedule. Pyre winced, nodded, and read the list again.

"We're on it, sir. We'll be here at precisely 08:30 tomorrow," Pyre said confidently to Rios.

"Now, there's someone I'd like you to meet."

The two men followed Rios out into the lobby, walked down three more hallways, took a left, a right, and then walked down to the end of a hallway until Rios gestured to a door on the left.

Rios knocked on the door with three quick but loud taps. The woman sitting in the office opened the door, seeing the two new recruits standing before her.

"Meet Angela, your mission coordinator."

She saw the two strangers and immediately slammed the door when she heard her phone ring.

Rios decided he would not insert himself into the situation. He would simply stand and watch. After what felt like an eternity, it became very clear she wasn't coming out. The blinds on the door were closed and there wasn't even a possibility of making out a human silhouette on the phone.

"Sorry. She gets busy sometimes and she's not exactly keen on warming up to strangers. She probably runs one of the largest workloads we could give our coordinators. Given how new she is, she manages the work pretty well."

"Got it. Just a little shy and busy. Been there myself," Manx said.

Rios simply smiled, grateful the man understood. Angela wasn't exactly a people person, so to say. She would have no problem discussing details with Salem and him. No problem with talking to clients. Meeting them was hard, but she did her job efficiently. Of the several coordinators and small record-keeping staff they'd hired (Salem never cut it), she took on almost the largest workload.

They had just recently bought an old administrative headquarters from a former minor investment firm, Callister & McCroy Investment Solutions. This was a big building, a 350-foot skyscraper. And after buying it, there was very little money to manage staff and operations, let alone upkeep, until more jobs came in.

The former firm had been finding some spikes in business for the past several years. Seeing this, the smart offshore Rotterdam owners had purchased the building in the 2008 crash, when prices were down and business not too bad. After the crash and the arrival of Wells Fargo, however, the Dutch owners knew their business wasn't going to last. As their other small buildings were slowly bought and the skyscraper was quickly depreciating, they had to sell the skyscraper and the company went belly up. The only ones who wanted the skyscraper anymore were Salem and Rios. And although reluctant to accept the far below asking price bid, it was the only one. Reluctant and embarrassed at their failures, the owners okayed the sale and excepted the minor bid. (It was the only way to have bought the building for the fledgling company, which bought it for a measly 13.25 million dollars.) And 2 months prior, T.W.O. was fully moved in and bought nearby land for their airstrip.

She felt overworked sometimes, which Rios could understand. But the situation being what it was and the company being as new as it was, some would have to stick their necks out a little farther. He hoped he could rely on Angela and a handful of others too, just as he and Salem were relying on each other. And they would continue to do so if it ensured the company's survival and that there would be eventual growth in the near future.

And once they hired some more people, Rios suspected Angela would open right up to the two she was now assigned as her workload decreased. But he couldn't stop acknowledging the workload he had given her. She was busy as it was, and if several of her skill level didn't pull the weight, well… Her colleagues' efficiency would plummet. She would do her best, however.

They walked back to Rios' office, sitting down while the big man laid out some papers in front of them. He passed them each a black pen and began to explain what these papers meant and what the two new men were agreeing to.

They each shook his hand and left for their respective abodes, after spending several more hours going over contracts. Sign up agreements, agreements about the fact that they would indeed be partners and what that entailed, salary, insurance, mission policy, etc.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

As Manx entered his small house, he thought about what he was going to Kosovo to do. That was to dismantle the militia. The UN decided to try and avoid a major ethnic conflict. So it had sworn a policy of no involvement in the matter. And eventually, he might take the leader on. There was that tempting bonus to remember, after all.

He turned on the kitchen light as he traipsed through the front door. Everything was in perfect order, just as he had left it. The cream walls contrasted with the cedar dining room table.

The microwave stood by like a sniper team waiting for the green light, the fridge the team's lead waiting until the moment was right to give the go-ahead. And it did, soon in the form of corn, beef, and beans, microwaved generously and set out at the table soon after. A glass of water and a late dinner was served at roughly 9 P.M.

Pyre was having a similar experience. He prepared food and laid on the couch, watching a cheap, poorly made horror movie he couldn't stop laughing at as he occasionally drank from a Bud Light. He paid attention as a ridiculous set of lines came up.

"What… What's going on? Did we lose him?" the leading actress asked.

"You could say, well… He never left!" the leading male shouted, revealing a hideous and quite obvious costume of what was meant to be a giant reptilian monster.

The "monster", if one could have even called it that, then proceeded to laugh and grab the women, carrying her off to soon swallow her whole, and she continued screaming as he threw off the flesh disguising his head to reveal a hideous fake face that was so fake Pyre couldn't stop laughing.

After another horror movie, Pyre dropped into a deep and intense sleep. He soon found himself removing his shirt and sweating in the small apartment bedroom, whose windows provided poor ventilation and provided no climate control.

The trance of nightmares held him captive. His mind went back to a dark basement with the sounds of water dripping. He could smell the mold as the ceiling dripped and the drops echoed off the small puddles around him. Although loud, it was soothing. Something to combat being tied to a chair.

"Well hello, Pier. How are we doing today?"

At him looked a muscled, angry man. Somewhere around 37 is how he looked to Pyre. Minor stubble, yet noticeable. A pale white male. He couldn't pinpoint where he was from, even if he tried. His guess was Eastern Europe, but he wasn't sure.

Clear words wouldn't escape his mouth. The audible struggle for words gave the captor pleasure. The gag was fulfilling its purpose perfectly. The chair was firm steel. The ropes were garotte wire, tied, and secure. As he felt his short-sleeve shirt feel the cold steel back of the chair, he knew what he was going to do.

A club came back along his face hard! Another man was standing there with a baton.

"Swing again," the captor said. The militant obeyed, swinging again but at his kneecap. Pyre heard a worrying pop. Oh no…

He stopped swinging only on a hand signal. Kevin was aware there were now bruises. Big bruises. Something stuck out, likely bone from the several repeated swings to his kneecap. He screamed in pain! As he tried to move his arms, the garotte wire left deep lacerations. He couldn't bend down, or else the wire would leave deep lacerations on his back, too.

"I know where your friends are. Would you like to see them?" the captor asked. A third man walked in and kept a Beretta 92 aimed at his head as he watched what his captor had to say. Two men with AK-47s went over to where the captor pointed. On came a light and there they were! The men didn't so much as blink under their black uniforms and helmets, plus balaclavas. They wore bulletproof vests on the outside as they stared the captive squad down. They had black kevlar helmets, too.

Eight men tied, gagged, and squirming were revealed. They were tied in the same way as he was. The militants thoroughly observed them, ready to put them down if they so much as blinked in a way the captor disapproved of.

"I'll make you an offer. If you can tell me what I want to know, I will let one of them of your choice live and maybe you as well. Which one will it be? Choose wisely," the head captor said menacingly.

They all shook their heads. One whose gag fell off briefly mouthed 'Don't do it!' What the captor wanted to know was troop positions. Where were the men he served with stationed? In such a vast desert, there was no way of knowing unless Kevin told them. The head captor brought a map before him.

He pointed to several places, asking which one it was. He lowered the gag to let the Specialist talk. The men continued shaking their heads, wide-eyed in horror at the decision their squadmate may make.

"I don't bargain with scum like you. You're a terrorist. I know you'll go back on your word no matter what I choose to do. So do me a favor and take this in: I won't tell you ANYTHING!"

The squad briefly breathed their sighs of relief. Their leader hadn't sold them out! Thank goodness!

"Kill them."

AKs fired and viciously cut down seven squad members, who took bullet after bullet as the blood leaked from their chests and their heads had bits of skull exposed. Two heads had come clean off, somewhere farther across the room. The moment moved in slow motion as bullet after bullet fell onto the men. All he could do was watch. He wanted to scream, but no sound came out.

One remained, watching him intently. Corporal Peterson, the best man in the squad, if Pyre was to play favorites.

"So you don't negotiate, hmmm? That's good, because of NEITHER… DO… I!" he yelled.

A machete came out! It was rusted, with the blood of those less fortunate than most. Though it looked dull, it was unmistakably sharp. 'Resistance is futile!' The blade practically proclaimed it just upon eyesight. The size of the mahogany handle made the weight balance superb.

In one look, the Corporal conveyed it was an honor serving with him. He nodded back. A final salute. They both shed several tears. It said everything it needed to without words. Perhaps even a feeling words couldn't have described.

The machete came up and the Corporal didn't blink as Kevin, hot, sweaty, and scared, watched the blade come down. He knew the moment would bring him pain. But not as much as it did. He felt his wall, his perimeter, break down and he couldn't hold back the tears.

A moment of weakness he could afford. The man with the pistol and the two men with the AKs walked away, a different one staying behind to supervise the Specialist, Beretta in hand.

He threw the Corporal's head at Kevin's feet. He stared into its solemn eyes for a second and thought of the lifelong friendship he had lost.

The response to noncompliance, uninterestingly enough, had been to throw him in the desert and leave him for dead. Luckily he knew the desert well and the base was close.

After such a nightmare and cold sweat, a beeline for the bathroom was in order. As he stared in the slightly cracked mirror, he noticed dark blonde hair. Probably time to have gotten up, anyway. The clock on the alarm clock's display had read 4 A.M.

"Wow, Pier. Some major stubble you got there. Ya know that back in basic, they'd have gotten you good."

He went to put on a pot of coffee and mulled over how to show up for the flight. Probably didn't have to go too overboard.

As he got the water running and the razor out, he grabbed the shaving cream. After generously applying it, he wet down the razor and shaved across his face slowly, taking care to leave no stubble and keep his face looking smooth to show its young age.

The razor smoothly swiped and mowed its way through the stubble without leaving so much as a single hair standing in the wake of its destructive path.

Satisfied with the results, Pyre hopped in for a long and relaxing hot shower.

With a little extra time to spare after, he applied deodorant and took care to keep his hair back and out of his eyes. He brought a pill container down and read the prescription thoroughly. He stole a glance in the mirror again. _God… Okay, you're looking a little old, but nothing a mission can't fix. You know what they say. Bullets keep the body young and spry! _He allowed himself an additional ten minutes to get any other bathroom needs out of the way, such as taking his meds.

After the bathroom shenanigans were over and the bags packed, he allowed a nice look off into the streets of Miami as he had a cup of black coffee and turned on the radio.

Manx, on the other hand, had been packed the night before and had a gourmet omelet and fruit breakfast, having completed his morning routine. He looked outside the small house into his yard and thought of all he had worked for in having this house and the life he did. Life hadn't been easy, but it had been good to him. The decision to leave his country. It hadn't made any sense. Why had his parents wanted to so desperately?

He thought more about how lucky he was to have not been received negatively as a combat veteran, to be able to re-enter relative anonymity under the watchful eyes of the government he had served. He realized that maybe he and Pyre should leave early, so they had free range of the extensive T.W.O. firearms collection.

He put a pot of coffee on. As he looked into his yard again, he realized there was time. Time to check his bags. As he went into the bedroom, he noted the tall suitcase and smaller carry-on. He had packed only the essentials, including a good luck charm. A necklace with a shell casing that had hit him square in the helmet in combat, but luckily stopped. He swore it was his good luck charm, a sign he could survive even when the hit should have been fatal. Not that he didn't go to a hospital for treatment of his head trauma, but it had saved him.

He grabbed a plain gray mug and took coffee with a small amount of vanilla creamer he would add soon. Dunkin Donuts original grounds. There was not much beyond that that he really needed. As he added the creamer, he noted no stubble.

Manx took out his phone and searched through the contacts list. ABC ordered and named so he would remember who everyone was. All numbers he had memorized. He looked down the list and found the contact labeled 'Partner'. He tapped the button to call and soon had a clear connection with his partner's cell.

"Hey, are you up? I'm ready to go when you are. Just gotta get my dress uniform on."

"Really? It's not even 6:30 yet. Why are you suddenly ready to go?" Pyre asked.

"I want to get free range of the gun collection. I figure if I come and pick you up at 7:15, we can be there at 7:25 and have our weapons by 8:45."

"Yeah, okay. Okay. I'll be ready at 7:00 sharp," Pyre promised.

"Got it. Start reviewing the travel plan while you wait. I need us ready."

"On it. Got it right in front of me," Pyre stated.

"Okay. See you in an hour."

"Okay. Bye."

Manx hung up, hoping Pyre was honest. Admittedly, even he didn't want to spend the next 55 minutes or so reviewing the travel plan. But he would do it. In combat, he knew, preparation meant everything. And if they weren't prepared, they wouldn't so much as make it off the plane in Kosovo.

Meanwhile, his partner kept reviewing the travel plan. Now that he'd memorized it, he looked for and put on his dress uniform. If he knew Manx the way he thought he did, Manx would arrive on time or panic and get there right this second. If there was a time to do something… He'd laze around until it was time. It didn't matter.

Manx pulled up the Miami street to Pyre's apartment building in a 2003 Black Chevy Impala. '_What… How old is that car?' _Pyre asked himself.

He walked out to see a well-rusted and worn car. As he approached it, Manx got out of the car and locked it.

"What do you think? Pretty slick, huh?" he smiled, proud like a soccer mom watching their child on film scoring the game-winning goal.

"If by slick you mean well-rusted and worn out, then yes, very slick. How did you even manage to drive it here in one piece?"

"That is a secret that I will never tell. Now hop in, we have to make time."

Pyre did as he was told. If he was going to work with Manx, it was essential that he learn to listen to him and trust his judgment. Even though the car looked like cars that got scrapped, it still stayed in one piece. Although rusted, there were no dents. No chips, cracks, or scratches of any kind. The inside was clean and immaculately organized. Now he should feel bad, he knew. But the car wasn't exactly smooth.

The engine practically coughed when Manx restarted the car, as though it had the flu. It wheezed and squeaked as Manx made a sharp and awkward left turn.

"Doesn't this make you a liability to other drivers? Trade this in and buy something better. You can afford that, right?"

"That's a negative!" he shouted as he took another screechy and awkward turn. Pyre tightened his seatbelt.

"Oh, relax. We're just driving ten more minutes."

"I will not relax. Not as long as I'm in a moving scrap heap, I will not. How can you even still drive this!?" Pyre shouted.

"As I said, I cannot tell you. And if I can't afford a new car, I know you DEFINITELY cannot afford a new car. Whee!" he shouted as he took another turn.

To his credit though, Manx was driving well enough to not make him an immediate liability to any and everyone around him. No one honked. He stayed perfectly with traffic. Despite the fact that he was driving what was essentially a well-rusted steel block with wheels and a disturbingly cleaned and all items alphabetized kind of interior.

"Why does the inside of your car seem pressure washed?" Pyre asked.

"It isn't. I just figure if I'm the one using it, I have to keep it clean."

"And did you alphabetize this compartment?"

"Maybe..." Manx said slowly, then "why are you looking in that compartment?"

"No reason. I was just curious if you were packing. I'll admit that I am. Got a concealed carry permit and everything."

"Alright. Yes. I am. I dunno, post-army, just feel like I can't trust people anymore. Easier just to put on a smile and not let things go sour."

"I know. Do you think they have our best interest at heart?"

"More than likely, yes. Rios doesn't seem like the kind of guy to leave Salem behind," Manx said.

After about ten minutes of driving his rust bucket, he selected convenient parking space and got out of the car, Pyre in tow.

"What do you have in mind, gun wise?"

"I was thinking about a shotgun, a big pistol, and an assault rifle. Or a sniper," Manx said. "What about you?"

"Mainly a better knife. Mine is short and kind of worn out."

Manx smirked at Pyre.

"Don't you dare!"

Manx didn't. He just smiled at the remark. This was the one person he could do that to, so he took full advantage. In his hands were two folders. He handed one to Pyre, full of signed agreements, mission details, and various other things that would make reading anything in the folder a logistical nightmare for him. But now he knew how to keep Pyre off of his tail if needed, just clean and alphabetize something.

"Do we really have to read this shit? Didn't we already sign up? And don't you also have the information in your folder?"

"Yeah, I do. Tell you what: Just make sure your agreements are there and signed. Then, just give me the folder and I'll hold onto it. You won't need to worry about it until Rios asks for them. I'll hand it over then."

"Sounds like a plan."

As Manx and Pyre walked together in their dress uniforms through the fine glass double doors, they noted the receptionist immediately. There sat another receptionist, in a chair next to hers, also with a phone and fancy computer setup. She stood up, apparently expecting them.

"Right this way, sirs. Mr. Rios and Mr. Salem are sitting in their offices."

She took them right away to the door far in front of the reception desk and to the right, which took them into the divided office spaces. Salem sat in Rios' office with him when Manx and Pyre entered the room.

"Greetings Kevin, Max," Rios said warmly.

They both shook his hand, said their greetings, and sat down on the small couch in Rios' office by the coffee table when offered. Salem immediately frowned at Rios. He wanted the couch badly but knew it would be best to avoid the bigger man's fury, right now in particular.

Salem sat in the office chair, well-positioned after spending the last fifteen minutes getting into position. It was perfect because of his small size and him being almost all skin and bones, little real fat to be found anywhere on him. As opposed to his "larder" who sat next to him. (Salem recognized him as his leader, but he needed something to quickly call him and run away in the event the big man overstepped a line. Larder nicely provided that option for him.)

Salem piped up. "How have you two been?"

Rios watched the younger man closely. If he made a slip-up, he would be sure to inform him. He was not above keeping Elliot in check, even in front of his men, much to the younger man's chagrin.

Max and Kevin smiled. Kevin began.

"Pretty well, sir. My partner is the same. You?"

Rios nodded, indicating he was also doing quite well and Salem did the same.

Salem looked to his left, hoping Rios wouldn't start anything. He continued to study the boss closely.

"All right. Plane's on schedule. Now, you two have about an hour to pick out whatever it is you'll be taking on your mission. Take your time. There's no rush."

"Rios, that's a giant rush. One hour!? Not nearly enough time to pick out anything!" Salem exclaimed.

"Salem, it's enough time. Kevin wouldn't have stuck so closely with Max if we hadn't paired together men who trust each other's judgment."

"Well, if we don't go now…" Salem's voice trailed.

Rios made no attempt to stop him. If Salem ever wanted a gun, a beer, or anything as much as he did now, there was no hope of stopping him. It was like trying to distract a cheetah from a gazelle. It would already be gone and chasing its meal before you could figure out what had happened.

"Alright, Elliot. But be fast!" Rios smiled at Salem. Salem recognized the very kind and understanding gesture.

"Thanks. You'll always be my larder!" he said, making a mock salute to Rios as he showed the two men to the gun range and room full of guns.

Rios continued smiling. Everything seemed to be okay between them. Little did he know that was Salem's hope, too.

"Okay, so what did you two have in mind in terms of firepower?"

"I was thinking like this: So we already have our gear and masks. So maybe a large shotgun is my last line of defense?" Pyre asked.

"Yeah. Okay," Salem said, quite well understanding where this was going.

Pyre picked up a shotgun with which he was very familiar. Good old Mossberg 500 Tactical!

"You think you can take something like that? It's pretty serious, especially with some of the bigger stuff," Salem asked.

"Yeah, probably. Messed around with this thing back in my ranger days," Pyre replied casually.

"Okay. It's just… You're so little," Salem said.

"I'll make it. We're the same height, ya know," Pyre said.

"Okay, let me see you shoot it."

Pyre walked over to the range and fired, pumping to eject the shell. As he held it in, the kick was something. Not nearly as tiny of a kick as he had remembered. His legs told him this was not the answer as they almost fell out from under him. But his muscular shoulders told him the blast was worth it if it would knock a militant away from him. And for the range and cover? Worth it.

"Keep it. Looks natural and it's more powerful than anything even I pack. Twelve gauge, if I remember the one you're holding."

Pyre nodded his thanks to Salem, who smiled in return.

Manx, meanwhile, tested out the AK. The Russians always did have something he liked better. Stopping power was quite high. This would hit a man hard and keep him where he fell, that was for sure. But the HK 416 was an ideal weight and was similar to the M4 he had come to love so much. So he went with it.

He packed a Remington 870 and Rossi M971. His shotgun, smartly enough, packed shot and some slugs in case things got hairy and he needed some accuracy. With full chest armor, shoulder armor, and his mask, he cast a great and muscular, intimidating figure like his bosses who stood before him.

His tactical vest offered protection and mobility, a perfect balance. It was a seafoam gray shade with slots for shotgun shells and a belt with three respectively sized ammo pouches. If one didn't know any better, it would look like a giant and very heavy life jacket. Two long sleeves and large shoulders kept the look up, with sufficient armor on his legs without impeding his mobility too excessively. His pants were tactical cargo pants, rugged as could be and coupled with kneepads and some decent armor. He wore big boots, in his right one holstered quite a long Bowie knife. His mask was barn red and the white symbols stuck out nicely. On his left was the revolver.

Afterward, Pyre walked out. His Mossberg 500 Tactical fit nicely along the smaller man's back. Although he only weighed about 145 pounds, most was his muscle. He kept his legs very lightly armored. His mask was black with a white coffin on the black background with fire, a cross attached to its top. The chest was heavily armored with what was a very thick vest, slightly too big for him, with body armor on the chest. There were large pockets for three extra magazines and some pistol magazine pockets, plus shotgun shell pockets. The ammo he brought was almost all slugs. His shoulders and stomach were also generously padded.

His brown cargo pants had a convenient knife and pistol holster. He had grabbed a P226 and an AK-47. The AK had a nice bandolier to go around him without getting in the way while the shotgun slid seamlessly into the holster on the brown vest's back. Although the vest was slightly inflated by the chest, the protection it provided was incredible.

"You two aren't looking too shabby. I myself would rely a little more on speed, but the kind of firepower you've got may compensate. Manx, that H&K has no stopping power. Be aware you're gonna have to shoot pretty straight. But I'm guessing you knew that. Pyre, that shotgun… It's pretty serious. We're roughly the same height. A 12 gauge nails me hard, so it'll probably do the same to you. Unless your stock is padded and the manufacturer set in some nice protection to lessen the blow?"

"They actually did," Pyre said as he started feeling where the shotgun would kick him. He took the weapon and put it onto his back, while Manx removed all of his gear and packed it up. Pyre did the same and packed his gear. All of it went into various bags. There would be a separate person responsible for holding this gear and stashing it somewhere in Kosovo where the duo would be able to find it.

"Alright. So my watch is reading 0845, maybe it's time to get going."

The duo nodded to Salem.

"Tyse, it's 0845! I'm taking them to their plane!" he shouted.

"Alright, be there in a sec!" Rios shouted back.

They walked outside to what was an incredibly small staging and landing area for a few private jets at any given time. Even Manx thought it was orderly. The grass stood away and out, while the clearly marked runway could be lit up. Several luggage vehicles and staff were present. However, with a hangar for several private jets and storage sheds, as well as a records office for all flights in and out, and a small but efficient signal tower, the boring gray steel buildings had an amazing semblance of order. As far as design went, one couldn't have gone wrong with this. It was well spaced and everything had a sensible place.

"You wouldn't believe the shit we had to go through to build one of these. Just shows you Rios is a fucking genius when it comes to that paperwork."

Manx nodded, imagining that getting legal permission to build your own mini airport would indeed have been a real pain in the ass. How did Rios do it? How did he manage paperwork, piles upon piles? Did the coordinators ever have to step in? Would Angela even be reliably able to provide support while managing her mammoth workload? Time would only tell.

"Rios says we need to start expanding this soon. As you can tell, our company is finally starting to go up. Finally getting some people! God, it'll be nice to have more coordinators, split up the workload. I've about had it with stepping in for Rios on the paperwork and micromanaging the staff. They hate it and I want to spend more time shooting and less time filing. Anyways, about your mission: for the bonus on the assassination component, consider it."

Rios at this point had reached them. "Salem, we agreed assassination missions would stop. We agreed we would try to only go on more positive missions and only try to improve our image. That means DO NOT take the bonus from our contact for assassinating the leader. You will only taint T.W.O. 's image. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir!" the pair shouted in unison. Salem glared at Rios.

They agreed to talk about it later. The men carried their luggage and boarded the plane with a waving Salem and Rios seeing them off and wishing them well.

Knowing their microphones worked and equipment was primed, they still weren't relaxed. They were about to go into what was quite possibly the most unusual and ethnically charged environment they could imagine.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note: **There are some things I would like to clarify right now, just so it isn't a surprise later. Obviously, there's a chance you'll see Cyrillic letters. That would be spoken or written Serbian. Now, I do not know Serbian, nor do I have ANY actual experience with it, so there's going to be errors. (Same goes for any funny-looking English-like words, as that is another foreign language withheld until later due to spoilers.)

Also excuse the low quality, as I just put this up. It's been a long week and it just feels great to have gotten something done. Edits will come later. Thank you for understanding. Otherwise, I hope you are enjoying the story. More edits and chapters will come soon when I'm up to it. Also, when I mention the Kosovo Security Force, I mean Kosovo's own forces, not the NATO Kosovo Force.

**Chapter 4**

**February 18th, 2011, 04:30, Pristina International Airport, Kosovo**

Manx and Pyre, having made it through an hour of security checks (no one had been at the airport at the ungodly hour save the various staff and security) and having their gear stashed away made matters somewhat complicated, to say the least. The flights had all gone smoothly. They hadn't missed one and every flight had arrived exactly on schedule. Security faulted once, finding the earpieces and for some reason, the security officers had taken issue with them.

But Pyre had been able to pass it off as a new kind of microphone for a small Jehovah's Witness speaking convention, that is once one of the security personnel somehow recognized they didn't understand Albanian made the necessary efforts to communicate in English. (Her English had been choppy and fast, but it was passable.) His surprised and impressed partner simply went along with the lie, amazed that the man was such a good liar. And the security didn't seem to want to hear any more after hearing of the particular Christian denomination.

They soon stopped in a small alcove. They both took out blank baseball caps, put them on, and one radioed in.

"This is Manx, am I reaching anyone?"

"Manx, you're coming in loud and clear."

"Angela?"

"It's me. The landing was without incident?" Angela asked.

"Affirmative. Pyre and I flew and landed in Kosovo without incident. We're in the Pristina International Airport now."

"Excellent. Your equipment should be in the alleyway outside of your hotel and your interpreter will meet you there."

"Roger that. Equipment is in the hotel alleyway and we'll see our interpreter soon. Understood."

"Is your partner getting all of the conversation as well?"

Pyre quickly nodded and gave a thumbs up to Manx.

"Affirmative, his equipment is working just fine. He can hear you," Manx informed the coordinator.

"Good. I want to get paid as much as you do and if we so much as fuck one thing up, it's my ass. So just get this done and we'll get you home."

"Roger that. We'll be careful. Manx out," Manx responded to the expletive-filled coordinator.

They entered the parking lot, finding their ride and waving it down. It was an all-black Ford pickup, armored on the front grille and the sides. The windows were one-way tempered glass strong enough and appropriately constructed to resist attempted melee intrusions by armed militia, for example. If need be, the men could break open the glass and fire back at present militants. On top was a Browning M2 machine gun, ready for use in repelling Serbian militants.

The interpreter looked out. He smiled upon seeing the two contractors.

"How are you two doing? It's nice to meet you," The interpreter said, extending a hand. Their driver nodded his greeting and the contractors did so back.

"Kevin."

"Max. It's nice to finally meet you."

They each shook the interpreter's hand. Inside were two Kosovo Security Force soldiers, one armed with an M4A1 and another an MP5. They also nodded their greetings, receiving the same response from the two men standing outside the truck.

With them were two other black limousines. Inside the first one was the person responsible for calling on T.W.O. 's aid in the protection of his men and the country. Although he didn't know English, the interpreter would take his Albanian and put it into language the two contractors could understand.

With him was a driver and two Kosovo Security Force members, both armed with M4s. In the final limousine was a driver and three more security personnel, one riding shotgun with an MP5 and one with an H&K G36, and another with an M4. In the truck, meanwhile, one of the security personnel set the MP5 with the sling along his back and manned the machine gun.

As they drove down street after street, people walked out of the way or sometimes outright stared at the small convoy. This accumulation of armor and firepower impressed them. And if there was a truck that big here, something of the utmost concern was going on. But what was it? They hadn't the slightest idea. Even in the nation's capital, there seemed no reason for an armored convoy. But they, like others in the country, knew of the militants.

Protestors crying out against the militia lined the sidewalks outside the buildings as the convoy rolled along. They cheered, having been told exactly what that giant truck would mean. They knew exactly who was in the truck, their protectors.

Several men dressed unusually warmly looked down at the ground, some smoking cigarettes and looking at the massive truck before them. Pyre seemed on edge about it. Something was out of place… He could just feel it in his chest. His voice was stuck in the black voids of his throat.

He did not say anything and Manx was too busy admiring his surroundings to take mental note of his nervous partner. If there was a problem, Pyre would readily tell him.

They soon arrived outside of the hotel. After the small convoy parked, the interpreter, then the two contractors, then the businessman acting as a liaison and minor protector and sponsor for the protestors ambled out of the limousine.

The interpreter wasted no time and stood ready to work. The Albanian wasted no time either and shook each of their hands and introduced himself, while the interpreter translated both sides of the conversation. The businessman spoke and started at a comfortable pace, knowing from his own experiences that a rushed interpreter was not an effective one.

"My friends," the interpreter said. "I am grateful for the assistance and generosity of T.W.O. I hope you are enjoying our country so far. As you know, however, we have people to protect. Citizens are fired upon by Serbian militants. I send in my own men and they are ambushed in the streets, sometimes slaughtered. Security forces are few in number and they're fighting a losing battle to contain the chaos they do encounter. I need your help. Your boss, the kind Mr. Tyson Rios, assured me you would be here until the militia concluded its activities. And I believe there is but one way to make them stop: force them to disband. I have heard nothing but the best about the pair I was sent. So I am hoping you will meet those expectations."

The interpreter finished but stood for more. The two contractors, in coats, stood ready for more details. They silently nodded, urging the man to go on speaking.

"Payment is delivered upon proof the militia has withdrawn completely from Kosovo. Anything but and I will withhold payment. Because in spite of my efforts, the militia cut down my men. Security forces lose to ambushes and raids for more weapons. Vehicles and security installations are mercilessly attacked and police cower in fear. Free this beautiful city. You are the only ones who can. I trust your equipment is nearby?"

"Closer than you think, sir," Pyre smiled and said smugly.

The Albanian laughed, shook each of their hands, and left the contractors to their own devices. The interpreter also left, thinking it best to give the men some space before such a complicated operation.

"So, what is it we do now?" Pyre asked.

"If you're not opposed to it, I say we get room service and have some breakfast. Knock out for a few hours, get ready to go," Manx said.

"Well, Rios did tell us it was paid for. And Angela probably is doing something similar," Pyre said. They both nodded. It was time for a check-in, breakfast in bed, then gear retrieval.

"Angela, you there?" Pyre asked.

"Right here, Pyre. Hungry and tired. How'd the meeting go?" the young coordinator asked sleepily and somewhat irritably.

"We're not paid till we get the fucking militia out of Kosovo, apparently. Have to be able to reliably prove their gone, too. That Albanian was pretty serious."

"God damn it! I'll tell Rios. God, I hate this job right now. Thanks to that guy, the risk of your injury rises dramatically. Just stay safe and do your absolute best not to get shot. Angela out."

As the two men exchanged a look, they both knew what was to be done: Eat! They had not eaten since they had taken off, knowing they could go the whole time. But now that was over. Some eighteen hours of traveling left them battered and hungry.

Meanwhile, back in Miami, it was safe to say this: Tyson Rios was having a bad week. He didn't know if his men had landed (maybe Angela knew), two coordinators called for maternity and paternity leave, respectively, and Salem was pulling double duty. Tyson was very impressed that Salem had indeed finished tax filing, or at least gotten to where he had wanted the younger man to be. But other than that, things were not exactly going as intended. Because in addition four of the ten record-keeping staff were out with various ailments. Brief but incredibly bitter, expletive-filled battles with the monikers of tubby, larder, Ronald Mc. Chonkald, and the gordo guru became common. But of course, they made up. They relaxed, apologized, and Salem started to understand the position Rios was in.

As Rios begged his staff to stay for an hour or two extra, paid, they would often do so willingly. As the money from completed jobs soon came in, so did the prospect of hiring new staff and better dividing the dreaded workload of running a private military company. Never had they before appreciated just how much SSC had had to do to run a company. But they did understand it, certainly. He had the psychiatrist running almost around the clock, sitting in for various interviews and also examined multitudes of prospective employees as they let notices go out for more coordinators, record keeping staff, and even medical staff and another psychiatrist. (Theirs was running a 70 hour or so work week as it was, excluding the paid overtime.)

As Salem griped about finishing the bills, Tyson sat in on interviews. He did paperwork at night as well while three record-keeping staff always stayed to ensure organization and accuracy. The accountants continued long shifts and came in on and off.

Meanwhile, Salem also stayed late and continued working. The two always retreated to their offices, they each had a beer, and Rios watched the younger man do paperwork. Meanwhile, they chatted, planned, and drank, keeping morale from dipping between the two of them.

**Miami, 8:30 P.M.**

"Ya know Tyse, we have GOT to leave for Armenia. Beats this. How much longer do we have?" the younger man asked as he spun in a chair and threw a rubber ball at the wall and caught it over and over.

"Just looking at your calendar, Ellie, three more days. Can you keep it up that much longer for me?"

"I dunno. Look, I also know I haven't been the easiest lately. And I'm sorry. I just want to get out of here. This desk work, Tyse… How do you manage this? I'd die after a day in your shoes."

"I know, I know. I'll try and do it with you. We can do it together. Come on."

"Okay, Rios. God are you a good larder."

Rios frowned slightly, but knew Salem had to test him. Always keeping Rios on his toes. One of Salem's major talents, much to his chagrin.

"It's alright, Salem. What have you got in your mini-fridge?" Rios asked.

"Oh, ya know. This and that. This and that. What were you thinking?"

"I was thinking something nicer. That Bud Light just doesn't do it for me."

"Well, it's the poor man's wonder beer. Anything else to follow it up you had in mind?"

"I thought we'd have some food that was good, yet easy to make, so we have something to wash down. You can't cook, can you?"

"Define cook," Salem responded.

"Prepare something from scratch with available ingredients and appropriate heating. Usually not just ordering a pizza," Rios said.

"That is not part of the definition, Tyse," Salem shot back.

"I think it is. At least for the word "cook," Rios said as he made air quotes.

"Nope. I definitely can't cook. What'd you have in mind?" Salem probed.

"I don't know. Something exorbitant though, we deserve it after a week like this," Rios informed his partner.

"Tyse, what does "exorbitant" mean?" Salem asked, making air quotes. "And how about this? We either go out, I fire up the pizza oven and we stay in, or we can fire up our regular oven and make something, or better yet, the wonder of delivery.

"Exorbitant'' is just a fancy way of saying excessively overpriced. Pizza oven sounds okay to you?" Rios asked.

"Pizza oven sounds great. Could really use something homemade, I guess."

"You cook this time or me?" Rios asked.

Salem pulled out a nearby file folder and sheet of paper. He checked what it was from two weeks ago when they last used the oven. And he happily discovered he had been the one to make the pizza then.

"Well, Tubby... looks like it's your turn!" Salem said blithely.

"How many times have I told you not to call me Tubby, Elliot?"

"Well, like most things, too many,"

Rios frowned slightly. He was just happy to have this time with Elliot. They never had time together that wasn't just business and work, nothing fun. The past week had been an acid test, and they now knew their company could survive, even thrive occasionally. And the week ahead promised to teach yet more lessons with the several missions going. Luckily, Angela had reported an incident-free landing in Kosovo for the rookies.

Meanwhile, Rios got ready to cook as it had been fairly decided. But, at least he got to pick the drinks. Salem ran upstairs excitedly to their private lounge, which was large enough for a private kitchen, a wood-burning pizza oven, and a table. They had all the ingredients refrigerated and ready for use.

None of the staff knew about the secret lounge. But even if they did, the duo would just deny its existence. It was theirs, and Rios knew it would cause unnecessary altercations between him and Salem if he told anyone. And besides, it wasn't a major secret. And if it meant more time with his partner, excellent. Because outside of missions, they really spent almost no quality time together. But this amended that. And Rios didn't mind. Nor did Salem.

"You remember the rules, Elliot? To hide the smell from others when it's done?"

"Sure, Tyse. The guy who doesn't cook does that. Towel under the door to prevent the heat escape. Fan goes on, too."

"Alright. I figure the anchovies I'm putting on my half will stink things up in a hurry."

"What is it with you and fish, Tyse? That shit's just disgusting. You know how long we've had those sitting around?"

"And they're still fresh, Salem. I don't criticize you and your olives and cheese combination, do I? And I've seen you even eat anchovies!" Rios laughed heartily and genuinely.

Salem began to chuckle slightly too, happy to see his partner laugh. A genuine laugh. Something he hadn't heard in a long time and what he wanted most right now, besides just being told everything was going to be alright and that the company would prevail.

"Guess you don't criticize me. Whatever. Let's get cooking! Oh, and Rios?"

"Yeah, Salem?"

"How do you think the rookies are doing?"

"I think they're getting along just fine."

And so it began. As Rios got ready to toss the dough, Salem hunted in the fridge and grabbed peppers, olives, anchovies, mushrooms, cheese, pepperoni. He soon returned, hands full of the ingredients and an assortment of other accouterments. And so they cooked. As Salem insured the wood was burning, Rios laid the dough down and got ready to put on the various ingredients they'd need.

And after a while in the oven, they had a perfect pizza. Half mushroom, cheese, olive, and pepperoni and half anchovies, mushroom, and cheese.

As Pyre stared at the wall, and thought, Manx stuck out of the bathroom. He had an idea, something they had not yet tried. But it would have been a good idea, perhaps, to have done it earlier. But, Manx figured, they'd be practically invisible in the dark to most people. (Armored mercenaries stuck out like an English speaking American touring Latin America, Manx knew.)

"Hey, Pyre. I think maybe we should go try on the gear, we forgot to do that. And if we do that now, we'll have it all figured out for tomorrow."

"Alright. Be with you in a second." At the moment, Pyre was finishing writing down in a small leather-bound book. As Manx finished up one or two things, he noted his face in the mirror. He gave a slight frown, noting his face was incredibly expressive and he looked some 10 years older than he really was. And he noted a thick coat of stubble. But if you traveled 18 hours and spent the rest of the day planning, calling the coordinator, and getting the contract, plus making sure Rios was in the loop the whole time… Entirely possible.

He stepped out of the bathroom, barely needing any jacket. The weather was like his home back in Wisconsin. So he easily managed. Pyre, on the other hand, spent his childhood in some warmer state. He then remembered what he had been told. California. In Los Angeles. So, of course, the smaller man would be packing a jacket and hat and gloves. Manx, however, needed only a sweatshirt and a long-sleeved shirt.

Soon, they were outside of the hotel. Going through a recently sanitized dumpster. In it were the selected masks, tactical gear, weapons, magazines. And two massive duffle bags.

"Hope it'll all fit," Pyre said. Manx smiled back, smirked really.

"If you even..." Pyre threatened. Manx didn't want to cross a line as he thought now. The traveling had been rough enough as it was.

They spent the next hour talking until Pyre decided to call it a night and went to sleep.

**February 19****th****, 2011, Pristina, Kosovo, 0300**

At the early, ungodly hour of 0300 hours the next morning, Manx rose. He called in to Angela, inquiring about their plan ahead of time. He was not going to be caught off guard. And ideally, neither would his partner. So he put on his earpiece and called in.

"Angela, are you there? Angela?"

There was utter silence for several moments. Manx patiently awaited a response, wondering what could be keeping the coordinator off of the coms and busy. Had Rios assigned her yet more tasks on top of what she was already doing? Hopefully that wasn't the case. Manx's impression had been that she worked hard enough as it was.

"I'm here. What is it, Manx?"

"I just wanted to ask about this "test" our contact had in mind. He mentioned he wanted to see us in action, that he wanted to ensure that he was getting what he would be paying for. Did he tell you a time and a place where he would want that to happen?" Manx asked.

"Let me see. It says… Makoc. Makoc, Kosovo. Be there by 0700, he told me, " Angela answered back.

"How far away is that?" Manx asked.

"Roughly five miles. And he's not coming to pick you up, that much he wanted me to make clear," Angela said with palpable displeasure in her voice.

"Why? Why would he do that?"

"He said he wants to see everything. He expects you to do it in half an hour, gear in duffle bags, and fight a battle afterward. He says the militia is holding civilians hostage, using them as a shield. Rigged bombs on them. Neither the police nor security forces can get close. Gunfire keeps them away and it's all their negotiator can do to keep them from blowing up the village."

"And why didn't he tell us this? What makes anyone think WE could get any closer than those security personnel could?" Manx asked.

"I don't know. I hope you can get there in time. Or he terminates the contract. Sadly, a clause in our contracts allows this."

"Got it. I'll wake up Pyre and give him the news."

"Okay. Wait, another voice is coming across. It's our interpreter. Hang on a moment, I'm transferring him now. It'll take a minute or two," Angela informed the man.

The line shifted and Manx walked over to Pyre's bed. He tapped him lightly, just enough for his eyes to flutter open. It was best not to overdo it, as Manx had noticed him sweating intensely, talking in his sleep, and almost screaming. He had only found comfortable sleep in the past few hours and Manx had spent a fair amount of time not sleeping and instead watching over him until about 1 A.M.

"Hey Pyre, wake up. New orders from the contact," Manx informed the tired man softly.

"What, huh? Contact? Huh? What time is it, man? Did you know Saturdays are for sleep?" Pyre asked Manx.

"3 A.M. You're in Pristina, Kosovo. We just got our new assignment straight from the contact yesterday morning," Manx informed the groggy man.

"I remember now. Just got no sleep. My head hurts like a bitch, why are we up right now and not later?"

"Because Angela is transferring our interpreter on now. He went out and met the contact, we have new orders coming through. Some sort of test that he didn't tell us about yesterday."

"Test? What the hell are you talking about?" Pyre asked him.

"Contact for some reason wants to make sure we're the real deal. He wants to make sure he's getting what he agreed to pay for because he agreed to pay top dollar. So we can't disappoint."

"Tell me you're not serious. And for what god damn reason did you have to wake me up at 0300?" Pyre said somewhat angrily in an exhausted, weary tone.

"Because he's testing us in an area five miles away. He won't come to pick us up and he wants us there at 0700. We have thirty mikes to go that distance by the way. On our own two feet. And I am fucking serious when I tell you all of this," Manx informed the drowsy contractor.

Pyre was shocked to see his pseudo-OCD partner swear. He had assumed his partner was too proper for that. He was wrong. Well, life always has its surprises, he supposed.

"And test? What does that mean?" Pyre sighed.

As if their interpreter needed a good cue, he suddenly appeared on the communications after a quick warning from Angela.

"The contact says that your test will be as follows: You will go five miles in half an hour to a village to Makoc, Kosovo, where there is an active hostage crisis. Authorities are unable to come to agreeable terms with the hostage-takers, who appear to have direct orders from their leader not to stand down. No matter what. But in this test, you are the ones to go in. You will dismantle the situation, save ALL of the hostages, and clear the village of militia members. The contact will send his men in once the crisis is concluded to do an inspection. Should they find any militia left besides bodies, alarms activated, or if they find communications from other militia members aware of the situation, he WILL terminate the contract."

"So, he's serious?" Pyre asked curiously, as hearing it straight from Manx wasn't necessarily believable for him.

Manx nodded. Pyre gave him a thumbs up.

"Very. He wants you two here by then or ASAP. So I really hope you guys have your gear nearby. You'll need it."

"It's nearby, don't worry. I'll call in on-site. Over and out," Manx said to finish the radio chatter.

As Manx made a beeline for the shower, Pyre sat on one of the beds in their Semitronix Hotel room and flipped through the TV, trying to figure out if there was something he wanted to watch. He stumbled upon a program detailing Kosovo's unique origins.

Though he knew it well, he went to the TV settings and put on English subtitles. Then switched back and followed along with interest. Although culturally Kosovo confused him, he knew why it was the way it was. Conflict with the Serbs and Croatia agreeing to commit genocide against the Serbians. He understood why the Serbs were upset. But he didn't forgive them for what they did later. Serbia's genocide and expulsion of Albanians was the main thing that had created Kosovo. And as Croatia was concerned, at least in Pyre's eyes, the Serbians were not forgiven.

Meanwhile, Rios was back at base doing more paperwork with Salem early that morning. Although their bags were mostly packed and their gear mostly stowed away, he was antsy. Salem was keeping him on his toes as the younger man's resolve slowly fell from the nearly endless onslaught of paperwork. Between the two of them, they shared some four hours of sleep.

Rios would, of course, inform Salem it was two days before they had to leave for Armenia. After several long hours of traveling, they would be in Yerevan. Meeting with their contact to help remove a corrupt political leader who was sending in the military to remove his rivals and slowly gain more power. Their contact was part of the growing opposition hoping to remove him from the Armenian government for good.

"Today and tomorrow, Salem. Just two more days until we leave."

"If you say so, Tyse. God, I dunno if I can do two more days of this," Salem sighed.

"Just think. In two days, you'll be shooting political lackeys and restoring rule of law. Picture it."

"I guess you're right, Tyse. Rule of law is a nice thing. I mean popping Somali terrorists is the only reason I give a shit about it, but sure. We'll be in Yerevan, drinking Armenian brandy and watching the sun set."

"That's the attitude, Salem. Just popping lackies by day and drinking by night."

Salem smiled. It wasn't going to be nearly as bad with Rios by his side. Rios was like a rock in every situation. And had his rock been angry or afraid, he would not have known what to do. But Rios was just ready to work and get done what they had to get done. And if his rock was ready, so was he.

Meanwhile, in a much different position, Manx left the shower and toweled himself off. He looked in the mirror and looked for a long, hard minute. He paid attention to his breathing, his gaze, the bags under his eyes. His own worry. His mind. Instantly, a thousand moments of combat flashed through. A million screams. His breathing, however, remained slow. It took around 30 seconds before he could refocus and begin shaving.

Although he had no stubble, combat forced a habit upon him: If he was going to be afraid, unsure, then that was fine. But he would have to do what his less than perfect childhood had taught him to do: hide it incredibly well. If no one saw, you couldn't be hurt.

He was soon done and began brushing his teeth. He thought about why Serbia would have an interest in Kosovo. He didn't remember and decided he would ask Pyre once he was done with the bathroom shenanigans. He took care of business after brushing his teeth and washed his hands in the lavish Italian marble sink. He stole one last glance at himself in the mirror, wondering about the state of his equipment. He hoped it was all in order, he would need it.


	5. Chapter 5

Note: Sorry I haven't been on this a while. As I write this, the date is May 11, 2020. I will be busy for the next few days with an AP test and at-home projects around the house. Edits will come more as my schedule opens up. I am really sorry about this if you were excited about new chapters. I'm doing what I can, I'm just working with a filling schedule that will clear up soon. Also, I have no experience with any foreign languages used in this chapter, so translations likely aren't accurate. If you don't like this, I can go through and fix it later. I still don't know what I want this to be.

Foreign sentences translated:

Ja sam na glavnom katu. Mora da sam zalupila vrata, oprosti." (I'm on the main floor. I must have slammed a door, sorry.)

Na koljena, jebači! (Hands up, fuckers!)

**Chapter 5 **

While Pyre got up from watching television to get ready in the bathroom, Manx sat down and watched television. He noticed his partner had left a program on about the history of Kosovo, which seemed to be on repeat as he checked the TV schedule. As he sat and watched, he took out a pad and a pen. This was interesting to him.

As Pyre looked in the mirror, he noticed bags under his eyes. He remembered that last night had been a rough night of sleep. He remembered why he couldn't sleep. Another nightmare. Why had they been so persistent lately? No matter. It was time to regroup. It was time to get ready and go, as there was money to make and people to save. He took one last look and continued shaving. After a quick 10-minute shower and some brief relief mandated by nature, he was ready to leave the bathroom.

He immediately caught Manx watching television.

"Did you just get hooked on Kosovo's history?" Pyre asked.

"Yeah, unfortunately," Manx responded.

"You know that runs on repeat for the next week, right?" Pyre asked while trying to suppress a laugh.

"Yeah, I know. Oh, that reminds me. I saw that last night you weren't doing too well. I saw you thrashing around, seemed like you were gonna scream any second. Are you okay?" Manx asked.

Pyre looked down to avoid his partner's worried gaze. He caught Manx's notepad, titled "History of Kosovo". Why had he done that?

"Yeah, I'm fine. Did you just take notes on the entire program?" Pyre asked, attempting to change the subject.

"I did. We have to know what to expect here. These Serbs sound like some vicious motherfuckers. And by the way, about the whole nightmare thing: I'm here if you need to talk," Manx said.

Pyre nodded and smiled nervously, which he didn't suspect Manx had picked up on. How wrong he was.

As Manx turned back to the television, he continued taking notes. As Pyre headed for the island by their fancy hotel kitchen, he checked what kind of food was available on the menu when breakfast came.

He decided then to return to his bed and laid down, a book with a blank red backing in his hand. The man's dropped the book, startling Manx, who turned. He turned back soon after, noticing what had happened.

"Hey, Pyre?"

"Yeah?" he responded back to his partner.

"I couldn't catch the subtitles, what's the KLA?" Manx asked.

"Kosovo Liberation Army. They fought here since about 1996, really made Kosovo, so to speak. They were actually considered a terrorist organization by the U.S. government. Why?"

"The program keeps mentioning them. It keeps saying how great they were. Says there are statues honoring their fallen "heroes" to this day," Manx said. "That reminds me, before Yugoslavia fell, didn't other countries feel these ethnic Serbs' wrath or something?"

"Yeah, that'd be Krajina, among other places. That's in Croatia. The Serbian paramilitary tried to make Serbian Krajina," Pyre said, slightly angrily on the last sentence.

"Okay. So here's what I've got so far," Manx said. "Kosovo gained independence in 2008. In 1999, the U.S. bombs a few Serbian areas with the signed permission of NATO. Rather than help the Yugoslav Army and Serb paramilitary fight against the KLA, the proven terrorist organization as you said, the United States helps the KLA fight the Serbs due to their ethnic genocide and expulsion of Albanians. And the KLA are still honored by various monuments in honor of their deaths to fight the Yugoslav Army and Serbian paramilitary,"

"That's right. And make no mistake, the KLA are indeed terrorists. Alleged organ theft, attacks on ethnic minorities, usually Serbs, Albanian political rivals collaborating with the Serbs, torture, proven child soldier use, rape of ethnic minorities and even Albanians, their favorite ethnic group, if they collaborated with Serbs. Some good stuff, huh? Good thing they're gone," Pyre told his partner.

"And now the militia is here. Do you think they're Serbians?" Manx asked.

Pyre slowly nodded. He was absolutely certain.

Manx looked as Pyre slowly nodded, wondering why he seemed so afraid of that fact. An enemy was an enemy, whatever the culture. And like any enemy, they had to be defeated. Regardless of how that was accomplished.

As it became time, Pyre put down the book. He left it open, leaving Manx to look at it. (He was curious what book it was. He decided that if his partner was burying his face in it, that it must be good. The title page was open. It said the following foreign phrase:

Neka ti zauvijek donese čast.

-Tata, tata.

What did this mean? He decided he would ask Pyre later. But since the time was arriving to around 0600, Manx was nervous. He decided that he wanted to get Pyre up.

"Hey Pyre. It's 0600. Gear's outside, we have 30 minutes to get there. Let's get there early and surprise them."

"We don't have to be there until 0700. Just wait a little longer, Manx," Pyre told his friend wearily.

"Yeah, you're right. We'll give it 15 more minutes. Oh, by the way, what are you reading? There's this weird foreign phrase in the title page. Do you know what it means?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's an autographed edition? I have to get a dictionary to translate whatever that's written in," Pyre said with fake confidence. Was Manx on to him? He wouldn't let his partner find out about the book's real meaning, if he could. It wasn't really a novel. His partner couldn't be allowed to discover that. He must have packed it by mistake.

As the last 15 minutes slowly passed, Pyre went to the television. He dutifully filled Manx in on any notes he missed and left him to keep taking them. He then returned to the bathroom, to make sure that any of the last calls from nature were taken care of.

At 0615, the two men went outside. They rummaged through the dumpster, grabbing the duffle bags. They put on their gear, as the client had ordered. After some quick conversation, they were ready.

Pyre's nerves were visibly exposed. He let Angela know they were ready.

"Ma'am…" he said nervously. "We're ready to go. Are you able to provide directions?"

"Ma'am? That's not like you, Pyre. For you and your partner, it's just Angela or Weaver. None of this ma'am stuff. Is something wrong?" the handler asked the nervous contractor.

"No, Angela. Nothing's wrong. I'm just not feeling ready for this is all," Pyre responded.

"It's okay. Everyone gets the jitters before an operation. But don't worry. If you need anything, Manx and I are here to help," Angela told the man in a calm voice, then "Besides, your masks have cameras. I can see through them and provide oversight. If something seems off, I'll tell you. But don't worry. I am certain that Manx has your back."

"Thanks, Angela. And don't worry, man. You need me, I'm here, Kev," Manx said, hoping that a tender nickname would reach the man and calm him down, so that his partner knew he was here to keep him safe.

"Now, ready to go for a ridiculously intense run?" Angela asked.

"Am I ever. Ready, Manx?" Pyre asked, in a voice that proved his nerves had melted away.

Manx nodded.

"Alright, let's go!" Angela shouted, prompting the two men to run as she gave directions. Along the way, Manx focused primarily on trying to ease his partner's nerves. He knew that Pyre had been jumpy lately, as well as having nightmares.

"So, what do you think of this whole hostage thing? Personally, I think we're in and out in half an hour. Tops," Manx told his partner as he started running.

"You're probably right. I mean, we're both trained special forces. U.S. military. The best in the world. Not to mention that most of these militants are probably just inexperienced Serbs who will surrender right when offered the chance," Pyre said with confidence. And just as he had been wrong once that day, he would be again.

Meanwhile, back at the T.W.O. headquarters in Miami, Rios had caught a break. He remembered his two men in Kosovo and sent Salem to check in and make sure everything was moving according to plan. Salem entered the room, as he heard no voices, meaning no calls.

"Everything alright with the men so far?" Salem asked. "Are they moving smoothly?"

"Yes and no, sir," Angela informed her boss.

"Firstly, you don't have to call me sir. Just be the slightest bit respectful. To everyone, I'm pretty much whatever they feel like calling me, name wise. Rios is a prick, so he's sir. And what do you mean "yes and no", Weaver?" Salem asked, making air quotes on yes and no.

"Well, Salem…" Angela said, cringing at the informality. "Our client has invoked Contract Clause C dash 3 dot 113."

"What does that mean?" Salem asked in clear confusion.

"It's basically the clause in our contracts that lets the clients set forth a condition one time in the contract if they aren't satisfied paying without a test of the men they were sent. So basically, the businessman wants to see our men in action once for himself. If they don't satisfy him, he can terminate the contract between us and him, with no penalty or charge involved," Angela regretfully informed her boss.

"Seriously? He did that? Okay, then… Rios is gonna be so FUCKING excited," Salem responded sarcastically, then finished, "Did you tell him he was able to that or something?"

"Mr. Salem, as per company policy, I had to tell him before business began. He must have remembered and invoked the clause after that," Angela informed a now angry Salem.

"Alright then, Ms. Weaver. I'll tell Rios. Was there any way you could have rejected that?" Salem asked out of intense curiosity.

"Unless I could get him to drop it on his own, no Mr. Salem. And what they are going to do now is end a hostage crisis in Makoc, Kosovo. And if they can't avoid alerting the militia and saving every civilian, then our contract is effectively torpedoed," Angela informed the man, then "Next right, boys."

"I see. An airtight excuse to remove any and all business. Awesome. Right, you stay on this, I'll tell Rios about the fuck up." Salem said, then as he left to go down the hallway, "Great idea, Rios. Give him an out. Give us a fantastic obstacle to making any real money. Fuck!"

Salem ranted to himself as he continued down the hallway, remaining and acting clearly pissed the whole way to Rios in his office.

He soon arrived, catching Rios in a phone call. He waited another two minutes when Rios got off of the phone.

"Hey, guess what!? Remember our good friend C-3.113? Guess what? One guess. Nope. No need to actually guess. To summarize, the businessman invoked that. God, of all the bullshit in this job…" Salem trailed off angrily.

"What's C-3.113?" Rios asked with confusion and slight fear, not ready to confront a raging Salem.

"It's the "invoke if you aren't satisfied after a test" clause," Salem said angrily making air quotes.

"Did I make that clause? I don't remember that. But you mean to tell me he invoked that!?" Rios said.

"I do, Rios. Your bullshit attempts to provide the client with a good experience just sent our boys into an active hostage crisis. We can't challenge it. We can't pull the out of the place where they sound like they're in deadlock, because why else would he drop our boys in casually? By the way, did I mention they can't alert outside militia command in any way and that every civilian has to live?" Salem told Rios angrily.

"I see. And, luckily, we have to leave for Armenia in two days. So as problematic as this is, we have to leave Angela alone on it," Rios told Salem.

"You're not going to reason with this guy!? He'll just waste our fucking manpower! We lose out on millions, because fuck nut needed to waste two men and ensure we weren't backstabbing him. So we're helpless. Our men might die, and we don't even make anything. Get on the phone with our interpreter! Make this stop!" Salem shouted.

Rios gave Salem a look, informing him that he meant what he said. There was nothing they could do. They had to leave for Armenia. And Salem walked away, to go and pick out guns for Armenia, just two days away.

Back in Kosovo, after Salem went off packing and Rios answered a phone call, Manx and Pyre reached the destination.

The outskirts of Makoc were lined with security forces, waiting for the chance to jump in. Snow was on the ground, keeping Makoc's dry grass down.

Hills of green were covered with blankets of white snow, as if someone had angrily thrown a giant sheet over the area. Snow slid off of the light brown roofs of the houses. Over the weeks of constant use by the militia, the road had gained many potholes, and craters throughout the village from fighting with security forces. The normally cheerful appearance of the village's orange and yellow sided houses was replaced with faded, chipped paint. Some brick houses were barely standing from militia attempts to drive away the security forces the government had deployed. Everywhere there was white snow. It reminded the contractors of the season and it reminded Pyre his jacket had been a good idea.

As if the landscape was not dark and gray enough, men could be seen building small concrete and boring rectangular structures, ready for conversion into bunkers or mortar areas later on. There were some civilians carrying building materials or even building themselves, under strict watch by militia wearing all black helmets and bulletproof vests, with balaclavas and their eyes exposed.

A security officer, who spoke English, came up to the two men, who now saw some civilians with strange devices on the kneeling in the street.

"It's a shame, isn't it? We've been trying to remove them for a month. They're very persistent, we can't get them out. We're always close. So close. And then a rocket launcher fires. A new mortar goes off. Even a civilian is shot, just to prove a point," the officer told the men.

"It is a shame. This is unbelievable!" Pyre responded.

"I'm not sure what made my superiors think you two would have any luck, but here we are. Negotiation hasn't worked and we can't enter the village, or else they might blow up those civilians," the officer said, pointing to where there were booby trapped civilians tied and gagged in the street, guards watching to keep them from moving.

"No kidding. So, how can we help?" Manx asked.

"Well, we can't get in. But maybe a covert two-man team can. One watches, the other moves. It might be the only way," the officer told them. Suddenly, there was a call from another man, needing the officer's help. The officer wished the men well, then walked away toward the other man's voice.

Angela then piped up, having heard the conversation. "Alright. Here's the plan: I'm in your mask cameras. Clear out the village house by house. Now, if I'm right, there's one serving as the main communications. Knock that out, they're in the dark. Just make sure they can keep the hostages alive. Otherwise, we're screwed over," Angela told the men.

"Angela, this place seems like a supply base," Manx said. A truck rolled in, loaded with gasoline and building materials, as if to prove a point.

"I agree, Manx. Supress your pistols. And walk somewhere else so no one sees you and we can plan this out without others noticing you," Angela ordered the men.

The two deferred to the coordinator. She knew best and she was their handler. As far as they were concerned, what she said was law.

"Sir, I have a visual now. They'll go in in 5 minutes. Wanna watch the show!?" Angela shouted to Rios.

"Be right there!" Rios shouted back. Salem was doing paperwork, so it wasn't hard to get him up and to follow him.

"Hey Elliot! The Kosovo operation is beginning! They're going in!" Rios shouted to Salem.

"Be right there, Tyse!" Salem shouted down the hallway as he ran to Angela's office. Once they were both situated, Angela spoke.

"Sirs, the technology was a success. Their camera technology is fully operational. Not a kink yet. Pyre, Manx, climb up that hill. Get a view on the town and start tagging targets, so we can see the technology in action," She told them excitedly.

They did as they were told. They climbed up a snow covered hill and stood out of view of the village. Pyre suppressed his pistol, then tagged a machine gun aiming at the hostages out of a tall, boring gray building.

"Go for that first?" he asked Angela, awaiting her confirmation.

"Affirmative. Go in and stay out of sight," She ordered the two men. The house in question was on the left of a run-down and shelled street.

"Pyre, on me. Stay close and watch my back. I'm going in," Manx ordered his partner. With his suppressed pistol, he slowly ran in a crouch-like posture. He sidled up to a boring gray house, marking the path to the tagged house.

"Alright boys, find me a back entrance. A window, anything. We need to get in there," Angela told the men.

"Yes, ma'am!" they quietly shouted in unison.

As Manx slowly crossed the street, a massive APC came by! It drove at breakneck speed down the road, leaving Manx to dive across just before being hit!

Pyre looked through his partner's camera, seeing he had just made it.

"Manx, that was too close! Clear?" Pyre asked.

"Affirmative, this side is clear," Manx said, checking the area around the house again. He then thought of the miracle of the APC avoiding him.

Pyre crouched, readied his AK-47, then slowly ran across and ducked every so often to avoid a patrolling squad or a machine gun looking his way.

"I'm through!" he said with a loud whisper into the comms. He met up with Manx on the right side of the house.

He nodded, receiving a reciprocating nod from Manx. He held on to the other's shoulder as they slinked along the side of the house, avoiding sight from patrols, hostages, and any house windows.

As Pyre picked a lock, Manx watched. It had taken the man only seconds, with no visible sign of tampering on the window. As Pyre jumped into the house and checked the main floor, Manx followed in, the window loudly slamming behind them.

A guard heard! Manx shot him, leaving the man on the ground. The pager buzzed and Pyre immediately answered.

His language skills were rusty, but he prayed and hoped for the best as he called in after the pager operator's request for information.

"Ja sam na glavnom katu. Mora da sam zalupila vrata, oprosti." (Translation: I am on the main floor. I must have slammed a door, sorry.)

The pager operator replied back his understanding.

"Pyre?" Manx asked quietly.

"Yeah, Manx?"

"What language is that? How did you do that?" Manx asked.

"Well, you were going to find out sooner or later. I know you saw the book and I can't hide this forever. You read the inner cover. I'm Croatian. That quote on the inside is from my dad. I have to bring them honor, or so he wished. Unfortunately, he's gone now. But that doesn't matter, focus up," Pyre said in whispers.

As Manx proceeded through the kitchen, Pyre followed behind with a suppressed pistol.

"Clear," Manx said.

"Acknowledged, I've got your six. Keep moving," Pyre said.

The kitchen, living room covered in broken glass from massive picturesque windows, and a dining room were visited by the two men. All were clear. The boring white carpet and glass crunched under Manx's feet as he tiptoed out of the dining room. Next was the upstairs.

Pyre carried the guard's body and hid it in some bushes outside, following behind his partner.

"I'll take point. Cover my rear," Manx ordered the man. Pyre readied a P226 as they went down the hallway, then to the left from where they came. They opened the door, seeing two militants talking.

"On my mark, takedown. Three… Two…-"

"Na koljena, jebači!" Pyre screamed. The militants inferred he was irate, and the pistol made them obey.

The two militiamen were zip tied and the pagers confiscated.

The next room was to the right. It was a big office room. Upon the door opening, Manx looked in. He tagged what looked to be an officer, their commander. It showed up on a highlight in Pyre's mask vision.

As Angela silently watched, along with her bosses, the men readied suppressed pistols. Manx tapped at the jammer on his belt.

Manx laughed. "Let's try this again. One… Two… Three!" he shouted.

The men ran in, shooting the guard who noticed them immediately and gesturing at the other two.

As Manx tied one down afterwards, Pyre said angrily "My game, Serb. You move, you lose. This is for Zagreb,"

He looked away and watched as Manx was finishing up the zip tie on the other militant. Then, he heard the militant pull out a pistol! He readied it and took a shot, just after Pyre tackled him down!

"FUCK!" Manx yelled as he hit the ground from the bullet's force.

Pyre put his knife onto the militant's chest, as the man didn't try to resist. He looked away again, as the man threw him off and he hit the ground. He came in to stab Pyre, who took the man in and threw him off with immense force!

Manx got up, leveling his pistol and looking for the enemy. He saw Pyre, up and staring at the Serbian militiamen with pure rage. Then he was tackled again, and they got into a tumbling fight.

Dizzy and shocked as he was from the shot, Manx put a bead on the militia.

He fired and the Serb grabbed his chest in pain from the wound, falling after. Pyre slit the man's throat, watching as he slowly bled out and the life left his eyes.

"Is it just me or do you REALLY hate these guys?" Manx asked, placing down the jammer and disabling the communications. The alarms were down.

"No, not just you. What these guys don't know is what happened in Zagreb. January 18, 1993. My fucking home. Gone!" Pyre exclaimed.

"What do you mean gone?" Manx asked.

"My home was burned down. A few Serbian JNA got together. Two were drunk and they were lighting matches. They couldn't see for shit, being drunk and all. Lucky they were right by my house. Assholes get some guns and…"

"One of your nightmares?" Manx asked with visible sympathy and sadness.

"Yeah. Yeah, it is. Mom and dad, they… They…" Pyre said. He thought of his mom and dad. Gone. Tears filled his eyes. As he was kneeling on the ground, Manx came down to his level.

He pulled his friend in for a tight hug. Pyre did not fight him and the crying slowed slightly.

"So then Kevin Pier isn't your real name. Then what is it?" Manx asked with curiosity.

"Mirko Sloanov," Pyre responded between sniffles. He hadn't heard, let alone said the name, since childhood.

"Well look, Kev. We're gonna get through this. These militia bastards think they're unbeatable. No. This is just getting warmed up. Let's take them down. All of them!" Manx shouted.

"Let's do it…" Pyre said quietly, grabbing onto Manx's hand and coming up.

He collected himself, wiped away the remaining tears, and grabbed his AK.

Angela preferred not to comment on the incident she had witnessed. Rios and Salem had walked out of the room to make sure the accountants were working smoothly, but they returned.

"We miss anything?" Salem asked Angela.

"Only our boys clearing an entire house. You were right, these guys are great," Angela said.

Angela came back on to the communications to steer the men.

"Is the jammer in place?" Angela asked.

"Jammer is in place. Alarms are down," Manx reported.

"Good job, tri-legs," Salem said.

"Sir?" Manx responded.

"Tri-legs. Because the… Never mind, you know what your flag looks like," Salem said quickly.

He only received weird looks from the others around him.

"Salem… no. No more," Rios said.

Salem stooped down into his chair heavily and became silent.

"Anyways, keep going. Find where the controls for the bombs are. There has to be a computer, a remote, an access point." Angela said.

"Yes, ma'am!" they said in unison.

Salem just laughed in the background.

"Rios, you train them yourself?" he finished giggling.

Angela chimed in conveniently. She looked at Rios and smiled. She knew him well enough to agree. "You know, he just might have,"

They focused back quickly.

Pyre then quickly put his hand over the microphone in a way that would silence it. He gestured for Manx to do the same.

"I think the bomb is in that next house over. It's heavily guarded, so it must be. Go in there, turn off the bombs. We'll come back out and start untying hostages. We'll work from there," Manx ordered.

They took their hands off of the microphones.

"What was that about?" Angela asked.

"Nothing important. Just… rerouting a little bit," Pyre said.

"What is "rerouting?" Rios asked.

"Don't worry, sir. We'll show you," Manx said, trying to keep his partner safe from scrutiny.

They put their hands on the microphones again, silencing them.

"New plan. What if we take those bombs? Stick them under those mortar posts. Start the timer, then BOOM," Pyre said.

They took their hands off the microphones and Manx nodded to Pyre. It was time. Pyre eyed up the APC. A BOV-M armored personnel carrier, 7.62 mm machine gun. Perfect!

They noticed a house with lots of foot traffic. Important looking people, militants, officers, everyone. Inside and out.

"Check here. We should find our bomb trigger." Manx said. "Stack up on me, Pyre."

They went around the back of the house across the road, stopping for guards when they picked the window lock. As Pyre worked, Manx kept lookout.

"No guards yet. Keep working," he ordered his partner.

"Got it. In we go."

They almost noiselessly clambered into the living room. A guard without a pager spotted them.

"Hey! Stop!" he shouted in English.

Crack! Pyre punched the man in the face as he fell to the floor.

"English? Odd…" Pyre said with clear confusion.

Manx took point up the nearby stairs, Pyre watching behind.

They heard chatter in an upstairs room on their right. As a guard walked out, Manx took him down and took his pager, handing it to Pyre.

"Ready? Maybe it'll work this time. One… Two… Three… Go!"

The two dashed in, kicking the door and circling around the room, gunning down any guards or those who raised a gun.

"Everyone down! Get the fuck down!" Manx screamed. The remaining militia obeyed as Pyre ziptied them.

Manx saw the officer at the head of a table, a man dressed in a fine suit. A pistol lay in front of him.

"You have the detonator, don't you? Give it to me," Manx said.

The terrified man handed it over, as Manx turned it off. He then smashed it.

"Pyre, take this man outside. Put him in the middle of the camp and shout. The remaining militia will surrender. Do you speak English?"

"I, I do. Yes, yes!" the man in charge said nervously.

"Then order your men to stand down. Make them drop their weapons and retreat. Leave the hostages. If they disobey, we have security forces on your doorstep. Do it now!" Manx shouted, putting a gun to his head.

"Very well." The man said, pressing into his pager. "Everyone, stand down. Every man. This is your commander speaking. We have orders from our glorious leader himself. This village is not important. We are to leave. But we are not defeated. Do not worry. I look forward to marching on Pristina one day with you all. Leave the hostages and any remaining assets. There is more to do."

He repeated the same in Serbian, Croatian, and Bosnian.

"Alright, hands up. Then you're coming with me," Pyre said. He cuffed the man and began a resistance-free walk outside.

What greeted him was militiamen after militiamen laying down their weapons and walking out. The hostages, all in the middle of the village, were looking longingly at the handcuffed man. What was happening? This was so unusual.

"Angela, tell the interpreter to let the security forces through. The militia has withdrawn from the village," Manx said.

"Affirmative. I'll let him know," Angela told Manx.

Pyre walked the remaining way to the security forces, handing them the officer.

Manx radioed in to him. "What did you think of that?"

"I liked it. Seems like these guys are pushovers," Pyre laughed.

"See you on the other side."

"See you then," Pyre said.

Manx walked out of the village, as security forces and entered any remaining militia members surrendered or walked out. The hostages soon had men freeing them, as they were helped up and walked out, with security forces quickly securing the area.


	6. Chapter 6

Note: Today is the 17th of May as I write this. I know chapter five might not have been as good as the others and I am sorry. I'll fix it later. Pyre's story was probably introduced a bit rapidly, but I'll add some insight here into it. I'll make him talk about that day in 1993, so expect descriptions of gore and potential intense violence. I am also going to introduce two new contractors, both of which will be somewhat controversial due to where they served or originated. I want to see if I can handle these events and give an idea as to why they're actually controversial. And maybe help you the reader see the effect they have on T.W.O. as a company. And Rios and Salem leave for Armenia on the Twenty First, just for a timeline. I also made up Grozim. I am trying to find a way to do this that doesn't upset anyone from an ethnic group in the Balkans, but I'm having a hard time.

**Chapter 6**

**Miami, 5:45 P.M. **

In one of the black and well-cushioned officer chairs, Tyson Rios sat at the head of the table. On the other side of the table to his immediate right sat Salem. They both looked at the clear, dark white-skinned, gray haired man who sat before them. He was in his 50's. To Salem, he looked old and fragile. In spite of his average frame with a clear height of six feet two inches.

"Mr. Peter Williamson of West Virginia?" Rios asked the interviewee.

"Yes, sir?" Mr. Williamson asked, his drawl ever present.

"What can you bring our company?" Rios asked, his gravely, baritone like voice covering the conference room. It was at an appreciable volume, but not too loud.

Mr. Williamson, sporting his gray suit jacket, white shirt, and red tie with his short cut gray hair and stubbly beard responded.

"Well, you need a pilot, I'm your man," he said, his deep and powerful West Virginian voice coming through.

"Is that so? Tell us, Mr. Williamson, what's your experience in the field of piloting?" Salem asked with curiosity.

"Well, sir, I have been flying since the ripe age of 6 years old. My father worked in cargo piloting and had me training from then. Every Sunday morning from my sixth birthday until the day I turned 18, we went flying. I got pretty good, too. I served in the Bush War when I was just 19 years old, family situations and an estranged uncle looked after me. Fought for Rhodesia, June of 1978 until 1979, the end of that year. I dropped commandos from a C-47 Skytrain. I came back home afterwards, looking for more. You could say I had an itch of sorts," Mr. Williamson finished.

"What do you mean itch?" Rios asked, making air quotes on itch.

"Well sir, that prompted me to enter another 20 years of service with U.S. air force. I got into flight school, back into transport aircraft. I was dropping parartroops, flying cargo over enemy airspace, and even flying the occasional helicopter, sometimes with a sniper or gunner on board. After that, I came back and for the next five years, I flew a police helicopter to train in snipers on their targets during police raids, which I concluded in 2004," Williamson finished.

"Mr. Williamson, all that time in the air and serving in combat must have prompted some sort of mental resurgence, so to speak," the doctor said.

"Sir?" Mr. Williamson asked.

"Well, a man in combat might get exhausted. Rusty. He might experience trauma from exposure to enemy fire, risking his life so often," the doctor told the man.

"No, sir. My mind's as clean as this company's reputation. Nothing's ever been wrong so far,"

"Well Mr. Williamson, we're still going to have to run some tests if we hire you. Eyesight, weapons, a week of pilot school for review. Psychological evaluation. A partner, too. We'll especially be running you on some of the newer helicopters and planes," Rios said.

"I understand, sir," Mr. Williamson said.

"Mr. Williamson, I don't know whether or not my partner agrees, but I would like to personally welcome you to T.W.O. Congratulations!" Salem said, shaking the man's hand.

The doctor and Rios silently did the same, giving him big smiles.

"Now, first thing we give you is an eyesight test. Pass that, on to our company's certified flight school for one week. Then a psychological evaluation after this interview and a chance to meet your potential partner. It's a pleasure to have you on board and we look forward to working with you," Rios said with excitement, shaking the man's hand.

He walked out of the room, noting he had been formally dismissed.

"Hey Rios, what if we let him try out with that South Armagh man? What's his face? Oh, Luke Walsh," Salem said to Rios.

"You know, with Williamson's experience in flying and Luke Walsh's sniper experience, we could make a hell of an extraction team. Good idea, Salem," Rios finished, beaming at his partner and patting him on the shoulder twice. They each walked to the office.

Meanwhile, Angela called in to Manx and Pyre with two warnings.  
"Boys, I have some news. The first thing is that that leader you arrested has flipped and is now cooperating with authorities. He has renounced the militia and is now committed to removing them. He has recently revealed the location of a well-guarded supply outpost in Mitrovica. Destroying that would cripple everything in the northern part of the country. And number two, you've gone public. Your operation is being heralded in Kosovo as an international success against terrorism and Americans are watching you," Angela informed them.

"Oh god. Press will be here any minute I bet," Pyre said, having locked the hotel room door.

"Just decline commenting. No comment. No comment. No comment. Seems to work pretty well," Manx assured Pyre.

"It should hold up for a while. Anyways, I've informed Rios you two have gone into international news. He is not happy, but he leaves for Armenia in a little over a day now. So he can't do anything. Just do your best to keep everything on the DL and Rios knows our contract with the businessman is secured. He is pleased and he promised not to drop us, " Angela said.

"That's great! Attack the outpost tomorrow morning?" Pyre asked.

"Yup. Tomorrow morning, be up at 0500. You'll beat the press. Also find another base, because the press has almost found your hotel room," Angela said.

"We'll do what we can. Thanks, Angela," Manx said sincerely.

"No problem. Talk to you two later. Angela out," she said.

Angela continued to man the communications to await any news from the interpreter, however. Meaning she would overhear the next conversation. But she was smarter than to say she knew anything to her men.

"Hey Pyre, something's been eating at me. What happened in Zagreb? If you don't want to talk about it I understand," Manx said with deep sincerity.

Pyre's cheerful demeanor shrunk noticeably. "Well, alright. I have to tell you at some point. And hell, you're my partner. I can trust you," he said.

Manx nodded, willing him to go on.

"Well, it was in Croatia. January 1993. I was just seven years old. If you aren't aware, the Serbian rebels had stopped their activities in '92. We thought we were okay. It was a beautiful winter, snow was on the ground and it was terribly cold, meaning we were definitely in Croatia," Pyre laughed.

Manx chuckled and Pyre went on.

"Well, Croatia had held a referendum in '91. The rebels hadn't shown up, so independence was a sure bet. So naturally the Serbians of Croatia had rebelled, understandably pissed about it. And historically, there had been genocide encouraged by the Nazis against them, committed by Croatia. Anyways, by '92, the Yugoslav army had finished their tantrum. We thought it was over. We see two drunkards in our neighborhood, in rebel garb. This is January of 1993. We don't pay them much mind, because it seemed things might get a little better," Pyre said.

"But those drunkards were important?" Manx questioned.

"Very. Anyways, January 13th rolls around in Zagreb. Croatia is de facto independent at his point. Very much so, in fact. But these rebels just talk and talk, they scream, they then fire their weapons in the air. I'm on the outskirts of Zagreb, and I go outside to see if I can go get a newspaper for dad. I notice this and I keep walking along. But they sidle up to me and harass me at the door. Being as scared as I was, I put my hands up and they punch me. One points a gun at me, the other gets me a bloody nose and quickly breaks a few fingers on my left hand," Pyre said, recalling the incident well.

"Jesus. And you just went along?" Manx asked.

"I had to. I was not going to get shot in front of my own house. Let alone let those two get into my house. Anyways, at this point, it'd seemed like the one with the gun sobered up. He came around, hit me with the but of the AK 74. He then said this: "Slimy little fucker. Guess what? I'm gonna paint the Mona Lisa. Your brains are the paint. Don't wanna be art? Get on the ground!" So naturally, I did as I was told. I got on the ground and he checked me, took my wallet. Checked it, took my money. He's on his way without incident," Pyre said.

"Pyre, if you don't want to continue, you don't have to," Manx said with worry for his friend.

Pyre looked down, then put his head up. He would finish it. "Nope, gotta see this through. One lights a cigarette. The drunk one. He throws the match, it lands in the grass. I thought nothing of it, but he had done it purposely, I swear. He was on his way and no one was gonna be hurt. But I turn back around. I feel a lot of heat in the air. I back off to see what's going on. My house is catching! Mom and dad are inside, there's no way for them to get out. I see the fire spread in a flash. It hits one of our gas tanks, boom! My house is now completely burning. The smoke fills the air and I do the only thing I can think to do. I scream for mom and dad."

"Oh god. Are you sure you want to-" Manx said, trying to reassure his partner that he really, truly didn't have to go on.

At this point, Pyre teared up, before his consciousness and training shot it down. "The roof falls down. I know deep down my efforts were in vain. I remember what those two before did to me. I remember the one who lit the cigarette. I didn't know he had smiled at me before he walked away. The house keeps burning and I walk up to one. The one who held me up? His pistol is loose. I sneak up behind him. I take it. He turns around, I give him three in the head before he even notices I'm there. The other looks at me and puts his hands up. He just laughs. Deep and boisterous."

"God. What did you do to him?" Manx asked cautiously.

Pyre wanted to cry. He did. But his chest hurt and he was trained not to show weakness. "I… I do the only thing I can do. I ask him about the match. He laughs, tells me it was his intent. He seemed quite sober. Without a second thought, I blast him two in the chest. I didn't know how to check his pulse after, but it seemed to me he was pretty dead. I picked up his ID and I read it. I put it down on him and I walk away. I decided that after that, I have to get away. I can't live there anymore," Pyre said, sniffling and a few tears falling.

He regained his composure for a moment. Manx let him, not wanting to ask anymore. But he felt compelled to. "Then what did you do next?" Manx asked cautiously.

"I find a guy. Says he can make me some docs. I pay him. He does it without question and tells me about a guy that can smuggle me in. He gives me any additional docs, which state my aunt and uncle are taking me in because of my orphan status. I get taken to the country by him. He gets a guy to take me to Los Angeles. The Croatian diaspora in Los Angeles takes sympathy for me. They know I'm illegal. But they don't care, as they take me in, school me, feed me, teach me English. I hide my accent after a while and now I look just like any card-carrying joe. I get some money working in a coffee shop. Pretty soon, I'm off to the Army. Recruiter doesn't know I'm illegal, I'm in. I come back, apply for a green card. I get it, then I'm a citizen not long after," Pyre finished, tearing up slightly more. Even after so long, he let the wall come crashing down.

Pyre had almost started crying, but Manx quickly and instinctively pulled him in for a hug. "None of this was your fault. Know this, Kev: I value you. You're my partner. No one else is like you to me. I need you. And I'm not gonna lose you. I care too much to let that happen. You're with me and we're gonna be alive for all of this. We're gonna get through this. I've got your six," Manx told him, crying tears of joy to have the partner he did.

Pyre then returned the embrace and finally let himself cry. And it felt good to finally trust this man. He didn't care if he barely knew him. If this man would give him sympathy and make a constant effort to keep him alive, maybe that was all there was to it.

"I know, Max. I know. I've got you."

Pyre would sleep the entire night without a nightmare. A first in a very long time. But he had Manx. He didn't need the alcohol. He didn't need the 1911 he stashed away. Maybe this was everything he needed. Someone who cared about him. If someone didn't want him gone, there was nowhere to go. Because Manx would always bring him back. Always save him.

Morning came quickly at 0400 as Manx hurried into the shower, performing his entire morning routine in a speedy 10 minutes. Pyre during that time had decided to go outside and make sure his weapons were prepped. No one had been out at 4 in the morning, so this had worked well. Security didn't check the dumpsters for any reason and the truck didn't take the dumpster, as it had a label saying not to. An odd idea, but one that had worked.

As Manx came out of the bathroom, Pyre went in and showered. In 20 minutes, he was done. At 0430, the two men sat and talked. Manx thought back to how Angela must be doing.

Angela had been following the news all night. Talk of the two masked men's exploits had become quite popular on the internet. It was only a matter of time before the big companies got a hold of the story. And the Daily Mail already had, with their article titled "Masked Cosplayers Defuse Hostage Crisis".

"Hey Rios!" Salem called.

"Yeah, Salem?" Rios responded.

"Daily Mail just ran an article on our boys," he said as he read his phone. "They're cosplayers. And unavailable for comment."

Rios laughed boisterously. "Alright, they're handling this right. Have our company spokesman say we're unavailable for comment. And if these "cosplayers" do anymore, let me know."

"Will do. Oh yeah, Armenia is tomorrow. You ready?" Salem asked.

"I am. Your bags packed?" Rios asked.

"All packed. Ready to leave the moment I hear the word Armenia," Salem said.

"Angela, stay on the press coverage of our boys. If the press is watching, we have to be cautious about how our company is presented. If they're going to be interviewed, one slip of the lip means the public is watching us. Don't let that happen," Rios sighed.

"On it, sir. I should let you know they're going to attack a militia supply base in about half an hour from now," Angela said looking at her watch.

"Keep an eye on them. The press might be watching. Be careful what they do," Salem said.

"Understood. I'll tell them only to mask up out of sight of the press," Angela responded to the man, then radioing in. Luckily, the men were geared up.

"Okay, boys. We can't fuck this up. The press is watching now. There should be a limo outside your hotel. All black. Check out of your hotel, then get in there. Duffle bags included. And let no one see your faces," Angela ordered sternly.

They obeyed, checking out of their hotel and then taking the limo. Inside, a camera snapped.

"Angela, a camera just went off. They got our faces," Manx radioed in. The culprit had been the driver, right before they were underway. The photo was to a reporter for CNN, who had used her connections to quickly identify the two men by name, military records and actions, and soon current affiliations.

Angela watched on the web as the CNN article went up, identifying the two men by name. She started reading the article.

"The masked men are found to be Kevin Pier, former Specialist and a 75th Army Ranger in Afghanistan, and Corporal Max Cowell, former 101st Airborne serving in Afghanistan. The two men are both special forces, with stellar military careers. Kosovo is in safe hands under them."

"Boys, I have some bad news. The press has identified you. Back to your branches of service. They know you're in Kosovo. But not why yet. Decline commenting, unless I expressly tell you not to," Angela said.

Angela turned, her face reflecting off one of the glass panes inside. She noticed her disheveled look. Tracking the press's movement all night did that to a person. Her normally braided brown hair fell back down her neck. There were noticeable bags under her eyes. Her light blue eyes and black business attire's condition both betrayed the effect of long work hours and lack of sleep. Her normally unblemished skin had makeup removed in certain spots. Her black business attire was no longer in perfect order as it always was. But she sighed, turned back, and continued working on the communications. After this, she was going to take a long break and sleep on the bed she had set up in the office.

Although she was normally able to deal with almost any amount of stress, this was beginning to become a bit much. She would take that up with Salem, as he was more likely to accept any request at a break. And she knew that if she was going to snap under the pressure, the men just might. Especially Pyre. She had overheard the discussions between the pair and made the reasonable assumption that it wouldn't take much to put him over the edge. Because if he went over the edge, it likely wouldn't be a pretty sight. But she hoped she was wrong about that.

As the limo skillfully kept with traffic and kneeded through it, they reached a road 15 minutes outside of Mitrovica. The limo was soon trailed by two cars behind it. Angela saw on camera.

"You guys have two pickups following you. I don't recognize Mitrovica Landscaping Solutions! Get out of the limo, go! Get out of there!" Angela shouted.

The connection shorted out.

"Oh no… That is NOT good," Manx said.

The two men watched as the limo stopped. The driver raised a Zastava at them. Pyre pulled the P226 out from his pocket, nailing the man right between the eyes in a split second. As they opened a door and ran out, each put their mask on.

Now in full armor, they looked on at the trucks. Two men got out of each one. More pickups pulled up behind them.

"When do we just have nothing going on!? We've got the press and now our own driver just tried to put us in body bags. How did this happen!?" Pyre screamed as he dove behind the limousine for cover with his partner.

"No idea!" Manx screamed as the militia began firing.

"There have to be 40 of them!" Pyre screamed as he let his AK take down a militia member.

The street was lined with pickup after pickup. One had a mounted machine gun, which quickly announced its presence as it started firing overhead.

Another voice came over the coms.

"Well, well, well… Angela Weaver. I know its you. I've been watching. Your men? You can't reach them. The communications are down. All you can do is watch. So sit back. Get some popcorn. Enjoy the show," it laughed.

"I recognize that voice!" Pyre shouted to Manx.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"I don't remember where it's from. But trust me, I've heard it!" Pyre screamed as he shot another militiamen in the head.

As Angela watched hopelessly through the camera, the militia began creeping up. Inch by inch. One might fall, but another would move forward where they fell.

"Jesus, they just keep coming!" Manx screamed as glass exploded next to him and he fell onto his back.

Pyre hit two in the head. He reloaded, cursing as the previous magazine ran out.

"Manx, get me to that mounted gun. If I get up there, we can fight them off!" Pyre shouted.

Manx obeyed, providing blind cover fire. Pyre ran and kneaded between the militia, completely unnoticed. He soon reached the mounted gun, slitting the throat of the operator and expelling him. He soon began to unleash hell upon the enemy.

"Hey fuckheads! Take some of this!" Pyre screamed, watching as militia fell and Manx changed to take cover behind a pickup. Dust kicked up on the dirt road, as it turned red from the dead militia. As screams erupted around the area and Pyre sweat, Manx continued firing.

"We might actually survive this!" Manx screamed.

Pyre nodded and continued pouring fire. Sweat rolled down his muscled cheeks and his skin glistened. Manx's did the same. And then it happened, almost too suddenly.

First, Manx was kicked. He slid along the ground and his mask kicked up sparks and a terrible metal squeak filled the air. Around him were four men. Two pointed their weapons while one sedated him with a needle.

"MANX!" Pyre screamed. He ran towards his partner, only to be knocked down and held at gunpoint. He was soon tranquilized and the men were loaded into a pickup.

Pyre woke up in a hard and cold, well rusted metal chair. He felt like he had been out for days. He looked across the room, noticing Manx. He was also tied, arms and legs tied down against the chair and a metal pipe.

A man emerged from the shadows. He had black hair and clean features. Pale white skin and a white dress shirt, collar down. He slow clapped, staring at Pyre intently. His bright blue eyes shown in the dim lights. His average but well-built frame portrayed power. Looking at him, it was obvious that this individual was not to be trifled with.

"Well hello, Pier. My men say you put up quite the fight. As you probably remember me saying a long time ago, I don't negotiate. So how about you tell me this: how did you end up in this country? You tell me, I let you go. It's as simple as that," the man said with a thick Serbian accent.

He cocked a pistol, leveling it to Manx's head. Manx flinched, then reopened his eyes.

"This one. You two have a strange connection. I cannot understand. From what I've been gathering, you two have not known each other for very long. Yet you two are very connected. All the better," he said with a foul smirk.

"What is this about?" Manx asked the man.

"That doesn't matter. The point is, you have interfered in my business for the last time. Your partner has consistently ruined my efforts. For years. I try to do something, make something beautiful, he burns it to the ground. I try to make the world a better place. He shoots me down. Takes something from me that matters. So maybe it's time I did the same," the man said.

Pyre watched closely. He knew that this individual was capable of truly terrifying acts. He had heard of what happened to Grozim in Croatia. It was no wonder the victims still were traumatized from the incident over 20 years later.

"My point is this: You interfere again in the business of the Free State of Mitrovica again and… Wait, there won't be an again. I forgot," the man laughed. He turned, shooting a guard in the head with his Zastava, as several loud bangs filled the poorly lit, rust smelling room.

He continued to laugh. He flailed the pistol around, laughing and shooting it several times into the air.

The two contractors were given a truck to leave, and they were forced to promise they would never return. The men's gear had been returned in good faith, an assumption they would not tamper with someone who had their boot on them. Someone who could squash them as if they were mere small insects. Nothing but a pile of pressed remains and guts in an instant.

As they made it to the edge of the compound, the two men hurled their gear, in duffle bags, into the back of an old white pickup and drove out. Any resistance would have meant their assured deaths.

The two men started driving in under a minute, receiving orders via Angela calling in.

"Boys, where were you? Are you two okay?" She asked.

"Angela, we're fine. I just had to spend a little time in captivity. The militia is well-aware of us. And you know Stefan Dodik?" Pyre asked.

"Not at all. Who is he?" Angela asked.

"The guy who burned Grozim. We may just have found him. He has a militia now, the Free State of Mitrovica," Pyre said.

Manx pulled a set of documents out of the glove compartment. Oddly enough, it was typed in English.

"Pyre, you may want to see this. The militia wants every city and town from Mitrovica, all the way up to Bellobërdë. After that, they're going to stretch as far east and west as the country will allow. Then, it'll be a…" Manx said, stopping with surprise.

"A what?" Pyre pressed on.

"An independent nation. Then, he lets Serbian troops into Kosovo from there. They can then invade and operate as they please," Manx said.

"Why would he do something like that?" Angela asked.

"Well, this is the man who told me he didn't negotiate. He had his men shoot up my squad after torturing them. If I'm right, he's the same man from Serbian Krajina, the one I shot in Zagreb near my old house. I swear I remember the face. He must have wanted to try again at creating a state. He's gonna convince the Serbs they're in danger. He gets their support, recruits them into his militia, they take what they want," Pyre said.

"Then you two have to stop him. You're also gonna have to find a new place to lay low for a while. The press and the militia are both looking for you. You can't check into anywhere else, so maybe a safe house. If this man's as dangerous as Pyre says, you two are in for the long hall. Also, there's gonna be a lot less oversight. Mr. Rios and Salem leave for Armenia tomorrow," Angela told her men.

They confirmed their understanding, then nodded to each other.


	7. Chapter 7

The South Armagh thing is a historical reference to not a person, but sniper rifle from what I've heard. (M82 and M90, which were also sent in the mail to the IRA piece by piece on occasion.) I've heard its part of a song called "One Shot Paddy", where the man from South Armagh was meant to be a fake individual meant to deceive the British into thinking there were IRA snipers around and his friend "Eamon Wright", to make them look out for two people. (Eamon Wright means aiming right, I've heard.) And Walsh is born in Ireland, brought up in South Armagh in the 1990's.

Oh, and if you do google the Wombles after this, I was referencing the band. (Or show.) It was some weird British thing. Rhodesian (or Zimbabwean, if you prefer) Police Special Reserve (volunteer, middle aged officers) were called that rudely. Also a warning below about the nature of the story.

**If the website doesn't take this down, there will be violence perpetrated against groups because of their ethnicity. Don't expect slurs, but expect destruction of monuments of historical significance and unnecessary brutality against ethnic groups, namely Albanians. **

**MY WARNING: If ANY of this upsets you, please STOP reading NOW!**

Credit to Rothalion and Mercstouch for really helping me with this and just in general giving me a clear focus. They've been incredibly helpful and I just wanted to thank them for their help here. (And Rothalion for their help with this chapter.)

And this website for future research and information for the Bush War, because it's been helpful: Rhodesia INTAF on free webs. com

Please note I DO NOT support Rhodesia or white supremacist political views, actions, or any of the like. This website just has a butt load of information on Rhodesia, which I can use for this story.

**Chapter 7 **

Luke Walsh, a skilled sniper, and his new partner, pilot Peter Williamson, had been spending the past few hours of the morning of the 21st practicing flights over targets and how to run an incredibly quick extraction operation. Walsh had earned the name Tab for excellent eyesight and Williamson had chosen Bushwhack, to remember his origins to combat.

"Old man, I'm gonna be so pissed if you kill me," Tab said on the way to a particularly rough landing.

"Oh calm down, kid. We could've had turbulence," Bushwhack told his partner.

"Turbulence!? At a time like this!?" Tab shouted.

"Nothing you wouldn't have been able to handle. Sniper from South Armagh… Nice. Maybe I should tell you a story," Bushwhack trailed off like an old grandfather to a little grandchild. He went on to share a few details.

"Why is this harness so tight?" Tab grunted in anger.

As Bushwhack pulled the chopper around, the drill started again.

"I got two tangos in my sights. 200 yards off. Permission to engage?" Tab asked again, once of many times that day.

"Permission denied. Let me circle back around, get you a better shot," Bushwhack said.

Bushwhack was in his atmosphere. The usually confined cabin felt spacious and he tuned most of the world out. Tab was feeling incredibly confined. The radio chatter didn't help him drown out the noise of the rotor very well and the shots on the targets were hard to time. He smelled the distinctive odor of sweaty grown man, although being a Marine, that never mattered. The noise was wrecking his concentration and the radio chatter was poor, so he struggled to hear it unless Bushwhack shouted. And it didn't feel like the supports were keeping him in place very well. But, he did his best to slow the mind down and time the shots accordingly, after smelling his armpits and sighing in defeat that most of the smell was him. He could smell Bushwhack's seat, like that smell when the same sweaty person sits in a vehicle a lot and then the seat takes on that smell permanently.

Tab circled back, pulling right and slowing, allowing Walsh time to line up and eliminate both targets. They then landed on open ground, with Tab firing blanks until a team intended for evac had hypothetically buckled up and was ready after a run into the helicopter.

After running the drill for what felt like the umpteenth time, Bushwhack caught his partner singing over the radio. "Your man from South Armagh's at work…" he sang happily over his success in an off key and squeaky singing voice.

"Did I really need one that sings?" Bushwhack mumbled.

"Do you see anyone else training for this, grampa?" Tab said as he reloaded the M-82 to which he was accustomed.

"No, kid. No I didn't. But let's come to an agreement: I won't tell stories, you don't sing. Deal?"

"Deal. Now land, we have lost time to make up for."

Bushwhack had been admiring his partner's shooting skills each time they ran the drill. He must have hit 85 percent of the targets he was shooting at. So it would be interesting to learn how he had gotten so good. "Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"

"South Armagh. I'm Irish, but we moved there when I was probably six. Dad in the 90's was firing at British targets and he always took me along in the car. And the Marines from '95 to 2004," Tab said.

"Your dad was IRA?"

"Yeah. Don't worry though, I'm sane. I left home 'cause I thought he was nuts, our whole family was IRA."

"I got weird family, kid. I went to live with my uncle in Rhodesia, something about him being my closest relative after mom and dad split up. That's where I learned to fly, from age 6 to 18. Then, a year in the Bush war in 1979. But same as you, the circumstances were bad and I left at 19."

"No shit. Why is it that family always seem nuts?" Tab asked.

"Kid, I'm 51. I still can't tell you." Bushwhack said. "The important thing is that you don't let them control you. If you can't stick with your old family, forget what they say about ties. They do that to continue the abuse. You may be related, but not family in the right sense."

At roughly 9 P.M. yesterday, Rios and Salem finished packing their bags. They were going to be in Yerevan soon. And they needed to be ready. They were up and chatting, as it was now 10 a.m. on the 21st.

"Your bags packed, Salem?" Rios asked the younger man.

"Yup. Almost ready," Salem responded.

"Great. I'll get the luggage and get it on the plane when you're ready," Rios said.

Salem nodded his understanding.

As Rios packed, Salem drummed over a final piece of paperwork Rios had put him on.

"Tyse, this a non-stop flight?" he asked the other man.

"Yup. Non-stop all the way to Yerevan," Rios said.

"You know that's a 29 or so hour flight, right?" Salem told him.

"And before we doze off, do you know what we'll be doing together?" Rios asked with excitement.

"No. What?" Salem asked, immediately knowing where this would lead.

"We're doing paperwork and playing games. We never spend any time together," Rios said.

Salem did nod to that point. They never spent quality time together, aside from making body piles in foreign nations. However, this was unusual, having so much time together while not on a mission. Salem may play card games with Rios if such was the case.

"So what are we gonna play?" Salem asked with curiosity.

"Well, I figure we're always too serious. Walsh and Williamson, paperwork, the two guys in Kosovo. Us in Armenia. We can never catch a break. So why don't we play blackjack, poker, see where it goes?" Rios said.

"You can't be serious. You wanna play old maid too?" Salem asked with sarcasm.

"No. But we do need something to do, right? I mean, we can't keep working," Rios said.

"Okay. Gotta work for a nap, don't I?" Salem sighed.

"Yup. Now come on, It's 10:30. Even our boys in Kosovo are up by now. Is Weaver staying on it?" Rios asked.

"Actually, she asked me if she could take some rest. If I'm right, she's been up and on this for about 28 hours straight. While we slept, she worked. Is there any way we let her just go to her apartment and take a few hours off?" Salem asked.

"I don't know. Our men are working right now, there's been no time off for them. So why does she need time off? We don't have anyone to fill in for her," Rios said.

"Did you not hear me, Tyse? She's been working for 28 hours. And this is her first op. Our men get sleep. Even we get some fucking sleep, Tyse. And we do on the plane. And we did before. And we will after the landing," Salem said.

"Fair enough. Make it so," Rios said in a defeated voice as the two men went on to the plane.

Salem radioed in. "Weaver, take some time off. Go home for a few hours and recharge. Our boys can take care of each other. Be back in four hours, at 2:30 P.M." Salem said.

"Thank you, Salem," the disheveled woman gratefully radioed back, remembering the way Salem preferred to be addressed.

She stole one last look in an office mirror. Twice as disheveled since the window. She couldn't figure out what her hair had decided to do. She looked like she took electric shocks constantly. Her bags were much bigger under her eyes. Her mascara was visible and makeup smeared. She walked to the parking lot to get her car, go home, change, and regroup.

She radioed in to the two men. "Boys, I'm taking a few hours at home. This Kosovo thing has been crazy. I'll keep communications on at home if something should happen. Otherwise, I'm out for the next four or so hours."

After she reached home, she showered for the first time in two days, washed her face, re-applied makeup, and made sure she ate a good breakfast. She spent the next hour napping.

At this point, Rios and Salem were on the plane with luggage packed. It was about 11:30 A.M. when she came to.

Meanwhile, Walsh and Williamson had finished up their drill. They went into another, what they would do if the helicopter crashed. They would each take a rifle, a pistol, and one a shotgun and the other a sniper rifle.

"Tab, you got my six?" Bushwhack asked.

"Roger. Move on three," Tab said.

They counted down and Bushwhack moved. He went to check on the fake crashed helicopter another time. It was to serve as a hypothetical base, as there were about one week's rations onboard for a four-man team.

There were several hypothetical enemies running recon on the crash site.

"Search the entire area. They have to be around here somewhere," one said.

Little did they know that in the time, Bushwhack escorted Tab up to a good position, a small pretend knoll, while he readied a paint FAL, which he held by the pistol grip and fore stock to deal with the long weapon. Firing it full auto was a shoulder death sentence, he remembered.

He slung it at a port arms before the exercise to carry it so the barrel wouldn't bump the ground. Although it was heavy and long, he could balance the weapon well. And for the weight, its stopping power would knock the wind out of anyone. And the kick was immensely satisfying.

His black and light tactical gear had short sleeves with tattoos of a Zimbabwe jungle. He had short gray sleeves and kneepads along with cargo shorts and shin guards, bulletproof. His mask was with a sunset on his forehead with Mukamba trees in the background. His time fighting for former Rhodesia had changed him.

"Over there, I see them! Cover me!" screamed one of the twenty men.

Tab, wearing a mask like the Irish flag, noticed his partner's plight. He let a round go from a paintball M-82 and hit someone square on. South Armagh made him love the weapon. He wore a brown tactical vest with magazines for the massive rifle. He had an MP5 and a TEC 9 pistol. He had gray cargo pants with armor under them. (Both were paintball guns, of course. And the TEC 9 had a stock and holster.)

The round slammed into the man he intended to shoot, easily rendering him hypothetically dead. As Bushwhack found cover, he fired the paint FAL back at the enemies. Another one took a round to the chest and went down, while another three went into the head of an enemy.

As more men ran around, Bushwhack called to his partner. "It's getting kind of hot down here, you have something?"

"Oh yeah. Watch this though, your FAL doesn't do shit," Tab bragged.

He hit one man square in the chest. The man fell and screamed in pain, walking out of the area of the 14 remaining guards holding well guarded positions.

"Tab, anyone who puts their head up needs a round. These fuckers are eating me alive out here!" Bushwhack shouted into the communications line.

Two men did put their heads up. And Tab nailed them both in under two seconds. As 12 enemies remained, Bushwhack dove around and into a patch of convenient forward cover, a lot wall. He put his head up, hearing a shot whiz past! He started sweating, paint all around. He heard the enemies screaming, unaware as to where he fled.

"Tab, give me more cover. I have an idea," he said.

Tab did so, firing from the knoll and drawing attention.

"Shit, there's the sniper!" one screamed.

They began firing at Tab, who rolled and changed positions, firing occasionally to keep the enemies on him. Bushwhack flanked and found a group of four enemies, mercilessly firing the FAL. His shoulders practically cried out in pain at the FAL's kick.

Eight enemies remained. As they pinned down Bushwhack's position, Tab put two more down. As Bushwhack moved, one man grabbed him and put a gun to his head!

"Hey, sniper! I'm talking to you, asshole! Put it down, come down, give up. We have your partner!"

Tab remained silent. He silently changed positions, quietly so the enemy wouldn't see. He zeroed in on an enemy 20 meters away, isolated. He shot, hitting them in the head and sending them walking out of the arena.

Bushwhack broke free! He readied a pistol and shot his former captor in the head! 6 remained, and they scattered, with Tab nailing one in the back of the head on the way out.

Bushwhack fired and hit a guard squarely in the face. Four remained. As he walked, the 4 noticed him and began firing. Tab let off another round and they looked towards him instead, while two focused on him.

"Up there, fire!" one screamed. They all began firing at Tab, who was forced to change positions. He slid down the knoll and ran as fast as he could, spotted and scrutinized. But he did take the heat off of his partner.

"Hey fuckers!" Bushwhack screamed, firing at the two with the paint rounds for the FAL. They went down, both exiting the arena. As Tab advanced, Bushwhack grabbed an officer.

"Hands up, you fucking womble!" Bushwhack screamed. The startled officer dropped his weapon and so did the other man.

Tab came to cuff the other man, while Bushwhack cuffed the officer. They pulled the two men off of the course.

"What are wombles?" Tab asked.

"Band that made kids music back in Zimbabwe," Bushwhack responded.

"Wombles, though?"

"Yeah. That was a weird war. I think it was supposed to be an insult," Bushwhack recalled.

"I'd believe it. Wanna get some lunch?" Tab asked, slightly weirded out by his partner's odd memory.

Bushwhack nodded. They walked off of the course together, unloading the paintball guns on nearby targets and putting the guns away for range staff to stow away. It was about noon.

As Angela contemplated how to spend the next two and a half hours, she decided to go on her laptop and see what was happening in the news. She saw some articles asking who the masked men were, some trying to predict where they would strike next, others asking how they made those cool masks, and even one asking what to do if they should have a crush on the two masked men. And lastly, one asking if they were being used for military propaganda.

(In a note to the reader, I would point out there is an article someone wrote saying they have a crush on Andrew Cuomo, in March. Hence the inspiration.)

She sighed and did her best to track the men, but decided to radio them. "Where are you two right now?"

"Novo Brdo," Pyre called over his shoulder as he checked his surroundings.

"Pyre says Novo Brdo," Manx said to her.

"Got it. Is it abandoned?" Angela asked.

"Completely. About an hour and ten mikes from Mitrovica," Pyre said into the radio.

"No one's seen you?" Angela asked.

"Not since we were taken captive. I think the place is kind of destitute," Manx said.

Pyre looked and saw a small, abandoned home. "Yeah. Think there's any running water?"

"Has to be," Manx said in a desperate tone.

"Got it. As I'm looking through your mask cameras, I don't see anything out of place. I need to see running water before I let you two go," Angela said.

"Okay. Give us just a second," Pyre said as he went to go use the hastily dug latrine.

"It's about 6 P.M. here. Sun's already set. Can you see alright?" Manx asked in reference to the camera.

"Affirmative. Sight is not impeded whatsoever," Angela said.

Manx went around to the front of the selected house and opened the door. Inside, he found no bathroom. He did find a kitchen sink, which produced a weak stream of water when turned on. He also found a small shower stall in an abandoned upstairs bathroom.

"Alright. You do have running water. Is everything else all right so far? No press or hostilities since the incident outside Mitrovica?" Angela asked.

"Affirmative. No conflict since then," Manx said.

"Excellent. Then I'm able to let you two be for a while?" Angela asked, thinking of her fatigue.

"Affirmative, Angela. Get some time off. We'll be fine here. Manx out," Manx said to the beleaguered woman.

"I missed something important, didn't I?" Pyre asked after he came back from the latrine.

"No shit," Manx quipped.

"Oh, shut up," Pyre said as he understood instantly, then "That reminds me. Do we have a shitter?"

"No. We don't. But at least we have running water," Manx said with a slight grin.

Pyre sighed as he walked past Manx, who cringed slightly at the smell of an un-showered mercenary.

Pyre noticed. "Fuck you, man. You think you smell better?"

Manx sniffed his armpit.

"God no," he said with defeat.

As Pyre finished walking inside to go and put his clothing and gear by his bed in the new safehouse, Manx took stock of his surroundings, looking for somewhere where there might be some food.

From having dug the latrine, Pyre had tracked in a goodly amount of snow and loose sand. In spite of his best efforts not to.

Manx had entered, noticing the mess on the floor.

"Do we have a broom?" he asked.

"I didn't see one," Pyre confessed.

The other man sighed, before deciding to find and eventually use the broom he located in the closet downstairs in a small bedroom.

Back at her apartment, Angela looked back at an article that had come up one her laptop titled "Former Ranger Specialist Pier Traumatized, Unfit For Kosovo, Doctor Tells All".

_No. Damn it, no!_

She found another, this time a video.

"Two former special forces men deployed to Kosovo. Specialist Kevin Pier and Corporal Max Cowell. And one came home from the military not quite the same, says a psychiatrist in Miami. This afternoon, we interview a Doctor of Psychology, graduated by Stanford," said the newswoman, then "Thank you for sitting down with me, doctor."

"My pleasure, Helen. Now if I remember correctly, you were asking about my patient? Specialist Kevin Pier?" asked Doctor Peter Thornton.

"That is correct, doctor. You say he's unfit for combat in his current state?" she asked.

"That's right, Helen. 100% unfit to serve in any combat role. I myself even prescribed him Zoloft, 25 milligrams daily. I don't know if it worked, however," The doctor said.

"Really? Are you suggesting he has frequent PTSD attacks?" the newswoman asked.

"I am saying just that. He came to me originally complaining to me about heated, intense flashbacks every two or three nights. He says he can't sleep and needed something to calm him down," the doctor said.

"I see. Did family members or friends come to you originally on his behalf?"

"That's just the thing, Helen. His primary care doctor came to me, saying there was some problem he couldn't understand. Something Specialist Pier wouldn't tell him. He told him to come see me. I still can't believe he did it," the doctor said.

"Did he ever tell you anything about the content of the flashbacks or of any additional problems he was having?" the newswoman asked.

"Helen, that is purely confidential information. It was difficult to get him to talk about his service life, and what he shared was miniscule. But in all my years as a psychiatrist, I have never had a patient less willing to talk. He never shared any potential childhood trauma, minor details on marital life and employment," the doctor said.

"That's interesting. I understand that veterans are more willing to talk to each other?" she asked.

"Yes, Helen. Many families of veterans have come to me saying that grandpa, dad, their husband, whatever the case may be… won't open up. They refuse to talk about their service lives, quite possibly knowing their family won't look at them the same way," the doctor said.

"That's very interesting. You know, I try to ask my dad about Desert Storm, he won't say anything. I see him at a bar with his friends and he opens up to them immediately when they ask him. We thank him for his service, we ask what it was like, we assure him what he did isn't his fault. We've even asked if he's killed anyone. Still nothing… Do you have any tips to open up to a veteran about their combat life?" Helen asked.

"Your dad was 30 at the exact start, I recall you telling me. Which I believe makes you not more than thirty three. Well, never too old to learn. Ask them what inspired them to join. Don't say how you almost wanted to, and don't assume every veteran is a bag of trauma. Most aren't. Maybe thank them for stepping up to serve, because fewer than 1 percent of our country does. Ask about overseas. How their friends are. Maybe after the conversation you can ask if they would do it again. And never ask if they've killed anyone," the doctor calmly said.

"I see. Is Kevin Pier a special case, then?" the newswoman asked.

"Undeniably so. He isn't crazy or however you and your viewers may stigmatize him. He's a thinking man with his own problems. And I'm fairly confident the rumors of him and Corporal Cowell warming up are merited. Because now he can actually talk to someone who'll understand him. Someone will appreciate his sacrifice, not just look at him as broken the way most viewers or you might. And that's my message. Specialist Pier is not crazy and neither is Corporal Cowell. They are rational human beings, who just deserve understanding and respect, just like you and I, Helen," the doctor finished.

"So his trauma is a matter of circumstance?" the newswoman asked.

"Okay. Imagine you step into combat. You and your other men go into the desert and have to fight terrorists. You see dead women, children, and you have to fire your weapon. Statistically, most will decide they can't kill another human being. At least until training kicks in. You kill someone, see a friend die, and have to bury them. And to bury the women, men, and other children. Now how messed up can it be that it sticks with you? Because some of them even have to kill children, because they won't let their brothers die," the doctor said.

"My god," the newswoman said, fully realizing what she didn't understand before.

"Yes, Helen. Because those children are kidnapped, brainwashed, and trained to kill. And our boys have to keep each other alive, all for the sake of a mission. And if one shoots a child and comes home not forgetting, I can't blame them. No one should have to kill a child. But to keep their brothers alive, they will do almost anything. Because they have only each other in combat," the doctor said.

"I never realized… And that concludes our interview with Dr. Thornton. Thank you for watching and thank you for sitting down with me, doctor,"

"My pleasure, Helen," he said professionally.

"Up next, the interview with the man who claims after hitting his head in the garage and waking up in the hospital, he has found the answer to world peace. That and more this hour on KLW," the newswoman concluded.

As Angela realized it was 12:30, she decided she would continue to look into press coverage of her men in action. Including one article detailing the fighting as they attempted to determine where Max and Kevin were after the discovery of all the bodies and damage in the street, along with the two men's connection in this grievous event.

She remembered who she was to call when their was a possible PR nightmare.

She dialed William Kenneth, T.W.O.'s P.R. manager and sometimes stand-in spokesman depending on if a press conference was needed.

The phone was connected in an instant. "Mr. Kenneth, sir, this is Angela Weaver, mission coordinator and designation number 0-6892. I'm working with Kevin Pier and Max Cowell. There's been a problem," she said.

"I hear you, Angela. Is it about the press coverage? Media's eating these guys for breakfast. Especially after that fine, inexplicable mess of 100 dead militia in the streets," he said.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I think we need a press conference to clarify and request that the talking heads don't start looking into their lives. They have a right to privacy but those… Fuckers… I'm sorry. They just feel like they can have any tidbit on them, anything they want," she said.

"Maybe I talk to the spokesman, he runs a press conference? That way we can both state that we don't know where they are at the moment, which I don't, and to leave them alone?" the man said.

"Yes. That's just what we need. I keep finding the press coverage. It just grows and grows. They're looking into where they are, Pier's mental health, the possibility they're cosplayers with guns because of the masks, and it's getting ridiculous. Because even the Daily Mail's in on it," Angela sighed.

"You have to be kidding. The Daily Mail!? Oh, that is RICH. I'll call Mr. Salem and Mr. Rios. We'll have it taken care of in no time. I'll let you know when we've got something, Ms. Weaver. Bye now," he said happily, then hanging up.

Unsure of what to do with an hour and forty-five minutes left before going back to work, she turned on what she knew was a news station full of positive news and started watching. Why not get the press off of her mind while she heard about help for the homeless and litters of new puppies?

Salem looked at Rios. "What is it, like 23 hours?"

"About that, yeah," Rios said.

"Jesus. So what do we do until then, Tyse?" Salem asked.

"I'm not sure. Maybe we go over the mission again?" Rios asked, seeing Salem nod.

"Okay. First things first, this guy is a major oil man, friend of the majority in parliament. That party has been calling the shots and has caused massive protests in the Ararat province. We have to fight his attempts to control the military and his militant followers. We have to prove he's committed a crime and get the USA to ask for extradition. We'll probably have to fight his lackies," Rios said.

"Okay. What's the payout?" Salem asked.

"Depends how quickly it's done. If within 4 days, we get $30,000,000 and are given a paid flight home, upon proof of completion. It decreases by 5 million dollars for each day past that deadline. Who knows, maybe if we get done early, we can catch a plane out with more than 30 million in our pockets," Rios said.

"I like that plan, Tyse. Pop some lackies, go to the guy's estate, live it up. Party by night, I assume?" Salem asked.

"Of course. He guaranteed it. I here he's got something that's gonna make us warm up to the job more. Wonder what that is," Rios said.

"Oh, I here that he has some fast cars, a big boat, really nice stuff. Imagine if we get to go out on it. If we find something he has that we like, can we buy ourselves one when we get home?" Salem asked.

"Depends if we do well enough. He told me it was going to be a party every night. And we'll probably do well. If so, I'm getting you whatever you want. We've been pinching lately, but we can maybe put, say… maybe 2 million aside. Oughta be enough to get us something nice," Rios said.

"God I hope so…" Salem trailed off.


	8. Chapter 8

Note: What I said before was kind of harsh. Yes, expect violence and ethnic issues. I know you know that. This is Kosovo, its racial history isn't clean. So, I am sorry if it came across a little in your face and angry. Not my goal, I just want you to know what you decided to read. Some history in this part of the world just isn't pretty. In a terrible and complicated way I can't even begin to tell you because I don't even know an appreciable amount about it, but hopefully enough to write this.

I remembered I did something with Manx and his childhood. Maybe I'll touch on that and show you why it wasn't perfect and how his need to be perfect, spick, and span came about. That he basically may not know any better because that's just the way he does things and has for so long and how that rose as a need for control and also the military lifestyle for him, in my attempt to keep everything congruent with the characters I'm trying to write.

Oh, and I made a mistake. The Old Bazaar is a whole neighborhood. And in my research, the country is just really beautiful. I missed some sort of fortress or something outside of Novo Brdo (I think) and that was a mistake.

Also, Albanians, at least in Albania, are Muslims. Now because Balkans ethnicities are complicated, the Ottomans have been through what is modern day Kosovo and it has a bunch of mosques as a result. Really beautiful things, honestly.

I don't speak Serbian, but here: Добро је. Реци Михајлу да иде напред. Translation: It is good. Tell Mikhail he has the go ahead. (Source: prevodilac-engleski-srpski) Vaša kurva majke rodila je orka! Translation: Your mother gave birth to an orc!

Sorry that this took so long. Let's get this going.

**Chapter 8**

Manx looked to Pyre, who actively decided defecation was his best course of action. Manx decided he would go and check on the rest of the town, to see what exactly Novo Brdo had for them.

However, upon journeying there, he didn't see what he expected. There weren't craters, there wasn't power, obviously, but there weren't shell casings, bodies, stenches, no noise. Absolute silence. As though people had just gotten up and left. Knowingly. Willingly.

And then he saw what must have been a grocery store. Or so a picture of an apple and open entrance and strange lettering convinced him. Upon managing to walk through the entrance, the inside of the store was trashed.

Food and beverages littered the floor, and he tripped over a mop and bucket that were out. And a caution sign had been right there, warning him the floor was wet. He shook his head and laughed. As he got out of a sticky mess of fruit juice, milk, and whatever else was in the small family grocery store, the stench from the bathroom convinced him that either the store hadn't been maintained in a while, or the fresh stench suggested people had just left. But, 4 brothers along with him and one shared bathroom taught you what a stench was. Such a shitty memory…

He looked around and decided that he would steer clear of the bathroom, but check the register, in case they wanted to fly under the radar as civilians and pick up a few things. He took his knife and worked with it between the drawer and the register, opening it and finding what he guessed was about five hundred dollars in euros. He pocketed the money and noticed a safe.

He decided he would pick it up and bring it to Pyre, who may have known how to open it. As he looked around in the ruined building, he didn't see anything of particular importance. Until he went around the back.

A van. He couldn't believe his luck. Unused, probably dry on fuel, but there. White and rusted, the van may have fit in well with the surroundings, but its integrity was doubtful. If someone had just left it, and the militia hadn't taken it through on what looked to be their smash and grab through town, it likely wasn't useful. So he resolved to return to Pyre with the safe, tell him about the van, and see what would happen next.

As he walked, he again noted the village's condition. Snow all over, some spots with very large mounds. But a light jacket and bulletproof vest were enough, as long as he didn't spend a lengthy amount of time outside. But he wasn't as worried, as he remembered the power of what a Wisconsin winter was.

Luckily, Pyre wasn't hard to find. Sitting outside cleaning his AK.

"Pyre! Found us some transport. And cash. Also, are you good at opening safes?" Manx asked.

"I found a crowbar. How big is the safe?" the other man asked.

He watched as Manx dropped it. Pyre ran, grabbed the crowbar out of a storage closet in the basement, and came back, prying the door open in what Manx swore was record time.

"That Lino Lada? Am I good to take some?" Pyre asked the desert-caked man.

Manx nodded.

"You have this before? Just some great shit," Pyre said as he took some off of Manx.

"I wouldn't. That's been on a floor in that smashed grocery store," Manx said.

"Whatever. Swear it tastes better after so long without it. I'll shit like a guska, but totally worth it," Pyre said without caring, just happy to have the ice cream he hadn't for so long. (For the reader, guska means goose in Croatian.)

"Of course," Manx said, not surprised the man would do something like that.

He went inside, turned on warm water, and began wiping off the tactical vest. The ice cream, although nasty, didn't run as much as he thought it would and the liquid came off relatively easy.

One of the men put in their earpiece and radioed in to Angela.

"Angela, are you there? We're safe and ready for the next one," Pyre said.

"I'm here, Pyre. Our client actually wants you two in Gjakova, to assure the Albanians they're safe and that the Serbian militia won't go after them because they have you two and security forces," Angela said.

"Is he coming to pick us up?" Pyre asked.

"He says he'll pick you up in about two hours from now. He's on his way in a black limousine and an armored truck, the one from when you two arrived. Understood?" Angela asked.

"Affirmative. Preparing now," Manx said as they checked their gear.

"If he's out in such a major city, there's no doubt he will be targeted. Protect him and ensure any present militia forces are eliminated," Angela said.

"Wilco. What is the plan after that?" Pyre asked.

"If it isn't hot, spend the night in the town. Set out the next morning to take on a weapons depot," Angela said.

"Roger. Are we just parading through town for the next few hours?" Manx asked.

"Affirmative. Under the contract, our client's protection is a priority and the parade an obligatory P.R. stunt," Angela sighed.

"Since Dodik has our radio frequencies, are we going to switch to call signs or a new frequency or anything?" Pyre asked.

"Affirmative. In fact, we're on the new frequency right now," Angela said.

"So what are the call signs?" Pyre asked.

"You're aqua one-o and Manx is yellow three-three. The client is green nine-four and base is teal. Copy?" Angela asked.

"This is aqua one-o affirmative," Pyre said.

"Excellent. Teal over and out," Angela said, slightly disappointed the call signs weren't more creative.

After two hours, a black limousine turned up. Andri stepped out.

"Boys! Come on, we have people to see and parties to attend!" Andri shouted excitedly for the translator to repeat.

They hopped into the limo, their translator going in to the other limo and changing the radio frequency after a brief walkthrough, with the businessman doing the same after hearing of the first one being compromised.

They began the roughly one hour and fifty minute drive.

Pyre radioed in to Angela again.

"Teal, this is aqua one-o," Pyre said.

"This is Teal, I have you loud and clear. Go ahead," Angela said.

"Are we staying with green nine-four on some sort of parade or something?" Pyre asked.

"Affirmative. Stay with green nine-four and allow him to be visible to the civilians. Whether or not the militia are there, keep a close eye on him. He sounds like he'd be a little too friendly," the woman said.

The next forty-five minutes passed slowly. The two mercenaries checked their duffle bags, ensuring their weapons were ready. The magazines were there, the morphine in place, and Manx's first aid kit there to account for everything from a splinter to a shrapnel wound covering the chest.

"Teal, stay at your monitors. Start watching the camera on 10 minutes before we get there. I want NOTHING that we can't see. I feel like the militia is going to try and get green nine-four," Manx said.

"Affirmative yellow three-three. Cameras will be watched," Angela said.

As they arrived in the city, the driver and armored car, as well as the other limo and the van, made the Gjakova Old Bazaar the first stop. Snow covered the ground in piles and people stood outside in coats lining both sides of the road. Andri was excited to begin talking to the people and seeing them. The sun was setting and the snow glistened beautifully. Children smiled and people watched with excitement. Cameras tried to get their peek at Pyre and Manx, whilst attempting to do the same to the soldiers driving the massive armored truck.

"People of Gjakova! The militia may be strong… But we are stronger! Your country's mighty men and the two generously provided by T.W.O. will make quick work of the militant animals. Show yourselves, boys!" he shouted.

"Sir, with all due respect, we can't. The press is following our every move and they may give away your location, which the militia may use to act upon and attack you. We cannot in good conscious present that risk to your or their safety, sir," Manx said.

"Specialist Pier, I don't believe you're understanding something. You work for me. By contract, what I say goes. Now get your fucking head up and wave at these people," Andri said to him during a brief break, surprisingly in English and with only a minor accent.

With unmasked faces, they did as they were told. Waving, smiling, shouting, and laughing.

"Jebeni idiot… Fucking idiot…" Pyre said and translated through gritted teeth, remembering the proper Croatian words.

"We're dead. Just give it some time," Manx said through tightly gritted teeth and a beaming smile.

The two mercenaries went back down, cameras flashing and people cheering. The mostly Albanian crowd knew what the presence of the men and increased security forces meant. They'd been reading the news. The Americans and the Albanians alike were learning of Andri's brilliant work in getting the aid.

They raced away roughly ten minutes after poking their heads out, the armored car going ahead of them. In not more than a few speedy minutes, the small convoy had raced to the Hadum Mosque. For a service to celebrate the aid and to assure the major town the militia's days were numbered. By now, the town had slowly been lighting up. At night, Gjakova is a lit up center of excitement. And tonight would be no different.

The mosque was bright, lanterns and massive lights outside. It was as if at the entrance, the snow had been pushed away. As though it were a trespasser who was taunting the owner on the property line, knowing full well what going over to the other side meant.

Although the mosque wasn't particularly large, it was a beautiful site. (I recommend the reader googles it, because my description doesn't begin to do it justice. Especially the interior.) The minaret commanded its' position, reminding the people of what was there. Old Ottoman architecture restored in 2005 fully, it was a tragic thing to have destroyed in 1999. Three domes and several pillars were on the outside and three domes of equal size. Remarkable symmetry yet met with beauty. Manx was, to say the least, euphoric to see this. The whole country, despite being at a kind of war, had captivated him.

If the duo weren't so nervous, they would've taken more time to appreciate the country's beauty. But Manx reminded himself to stay vigilant. It would have been nice to stop, but they had to watch Andri, who got out of the car and started talking in Gheg Albanian with the Imam of the mosque.

A woman, perhaps not any younger than her early 80's, slowly swept under the massive domes. Such a beautiful place needed to be maintained. And the woman learned from her age that she couldn't have it any other way.

Manx gestured to the broom, then to himself, indicating he would like it. The woman shook her head, but Manx made a gesture to let her know it was no trouble.

"This is a beautiful place," he said slowly, then "I want to keep it that way."

She produced an accent-filled English. "Such a nice boy. Thank you."

With the broom, Manx began working immediately. Being obsessive compulsive, his mind was immediately set to the task. He looked over every once and a while to see the conversation with the imam. But overall, he continued working. Any amount of dust, dead insects, or hair, was quickly escorted off the mosque's slight inclination and away. The entrance looked nice in several minutes of work.

He handed the broom back.

"Thank you, ma'am," he said.

She smiled and went to put it away.

What none of them knew was that a single man had been looking over the position for the time since the men and businessman had gotten there.

"Добро је. Реци Михајлу да иде напред," a Serbian man covertly wearing night vision goggles and observing the area said.

He was correct. The men stood and watched the client. They were sitting ducks. Groups of people wearing traditional Muslim garb were there, all while the Imam suggested they go inside to begin a service.

The men followed in, leaving the spotter and Mikhail to wait for a window.

"Everyone good on the plan?" one man asked a small squad of people in Serbian dressed in traditional Muslim garb.

With his and the other squads good on the plan, the man gave the signal to the spotter that he and the teams were ready.

Mikhail knew immediately and the spotter told Mikhail to go on his mark.

"Boys, this is teal. Can green nine-four hear me?" she asked.

"Negative. Go ahead, Teal," Manx said.

"Look outside. I want to see what's going on through your cameras, I'm hearing noise and the satellite shows a sudden uptick in the number of people on the street," Angela said, then "Tell green nine-four he may be in danger," Angela said.

During prayer, they managed to pull Andri aside.

"This had better be important, Cowell," Andri said angrily.

"Sir, you're in danger. Our satellite indicates that there's a sudden increase in people, all dressed in tradtional Muslim garb in the streets. Together in several smaller groups. Evidence seems to indicate it may be an ambush," Manx said.

"Cowell, don't lie to me. Honestly, the press, to them finding me, now this bullshit. You really expect me to believe there's going to be an amb-" Andri said, cut off suddenly by a loud crack.

His heart stopped immediately. No scream. He fell down and hit the floor with a loud and resounding thump that echoed, and that would've been heard, had it not been for the loud rifle crack and glass hitting the floor.

Pyre was frozen in shock. Something had been reactivated. He wouldn't move.

"Pyre! Look out!" Manx shouted, tackling the man to the ground as another bullet just missed the man's head.

"Holy shit! What's going on!?" Pyre shouted over the screams, suddenly coming back.

"Ambush. Andri's heart is blown, the bullet had no problems there. Let's get to the van, with the crowd of civilians. Then we can get our gear safely once we get the sniper's positioning," Manx said.

"Lead on, man. I've got your six," Pyre told the man.

Pyre took a brief time, before assessing the sniper's position was on a high, slanted roof, as the bullet came downwards and at a slant. The sniper had been good, wasting no time in taking advantage of what was a favorable situation. He must have known Andri would appear to make an exact shot in such a large gathering.

"Our guy knew Andri would be here. Look at the bullet angle and timing," Pyre said.

Manx nodded in agreement. Pyre explained the sniper had a roof and a high view, but not high enough to distinguish them in a crowd if they weren't wearing armor.

They raced out, getting into the limo and unpacking the duffle bags. They crouched down out of sight so they weren't seen, putting on tactical gear and their masks.

"Are those bricks… Oh no. Run!" he screamed, realizing there was C4.

Not more than a minute passed. Then, the building came down in a vicious fireball! People screamed and scattered, as the snow reflected bright orange and the two mercenaries held their cover. And then they saw the individuals in Muslim garb pull guns. Some 60 in all, by Manx's count. And if the truck and van hadn't disappeared, they would have been a great help, or so the two men remembered, as pickup after pickup pulled up and men got out.

"Pyre, follow me, now! Get some cover, we'll draw them off in groups," Manx said, watching as Pyre came up and knocked two militants dead as they ran.

Bullets flew over Manx. He shouted his next command. "Give me some cover! I wanna hit 'em from the side!"

Pyre did so, firing at a few groups who had found cover. Manx came around the side, drew his shotgun, and shot through one who saw him. He stabbed 3 others, taking a grenade off of one and tossing it into a group.

Pyre held the attention of several mercenaries in tough cover, his AK making contact and passing through the head of two and leaving two others to bleed in the streets.

"Give me that bottle!" he shouted pointing to Manx's position.

Manx did as he was told, watching as Pyre took cover by a pickup. He took some fabric from a dead militant, stuffed it in the bottle, corked the bottle, soaked the rag in leaking gasoline from an older pickup, and threw it at a group of 10 after lighting it with a dead militant's lighter.

They screamed, the flames enveloping the group in seconds! They screamed in agony as they fell to the ground, attempting to roll around and remove the growing flames.

"Pyre, come here. Back to back, we will NOT get flanked!" he shouted to the other man, who ran like a cheetah to his partner's position.

They turned, one crouching or repositioning and the other aiming over the first man's head or making an effort to throw grenades. As more pickups pulled up, the men kept firing.

"I have to reload!" Manx screamed, crouching while his partner covered him.

A big man came up and knocked Pyre over! He had a big rifle on his back. He must have been about six feet ten inches tall and about 250 pounds. His punch hit like a bullet train, disorienting the man. He heard a painful pop and his jaw felt very different.

Meanwhile, 5 men looked at Manx. He put the bayonet on his H&K, staring them down.

One lunged at him, only to be stabbed in the gut and stomped on the head with a massive boot. Two more stared him down, one getting their throat slit and the other taking a back-spinning side kick in the stomach, going down, and having their jugular quickly and hastily cut. Another lunged, taking a stab in the groin and a long, penetrating stab in the stomach, before falling off of the bayonet and beginning to bleed profusely.

The last attempted to retreat and managed to get about 10 yards before Manx tripped him and he shot back up, a machete coming down on the mercenary. Manx slowly felt his strength giving way as the man tried to push it into his stomach, before taking his hand, bending it around all the way, hearing a pop and there likely being a break. He knocked the man down, threw the machete into his head, and did an ax kick onto the hilt, working it like a chisel through his temple, leaving the man unmoving and silent.

Manx saw Pyre get thrown and take a vicious kick in the ribs afterwards. "Pyre!"

He coughed, got up, and stared the Serb in the eyes. He decided if he were to die, he would not do so without defiance.

"Vaša kurva majke rodila je orka!" Pyre screamed defiantly. The big man stopped briefly, but seemed to understand as the smaller man raised his fists, ready to take more.

"Умреш данас овде, рунт!" the big man said. (Translation: You die here today, runt!)

"U redu. Recite svom psu majke da sam ga pozdravio," Pyre said simply. (Translation: Alright. Tell your dog of a mother I said hello. As I said before, this came from an online translator. Take it with a grain of salt. It is sourced above.)

The Serb was somewhat fitting of the title of orc upon and even after Pyre's first remark. He had misaligned teeth, stubble, and a face with a massively out of place nose and big ears. His black hair was unkempt and disorganized and his stubble was out of control.

Pyre held up his fists, made gestures, then went for the man's stomach with a knee, before getting picked up, kneed in the stomach in return, and tossed back on the ground. He slid on his back, holding the Serb's attention.

The Serb drew a pistol as Manx ran over to the big man, tackling him and stopping the gun from hitting a round on Pyre's neck. Pyre screamed in pain as the round went into the side of his right thigh and stopped. The armor just barely prevented it from going in deeply enough to be dangerous. Pyre tasted more blood in his mouth and his thigh burned like a hornet sting times a million and on fire.

Manx got up and took the man's pistol, throwing it away.

"You have two seconds. Go now," Manx said with anger and a confidence Pyre had never seen.

"Silly American. Think you own the world. Prepare to die," the man said in broken and accented English.

Manx put one foot back and shouted loudly. A noise from his core, which gave strength to his limbs. (Yes, this is real. Look up kiaps for taekwondo.)

Manx watched as the man came forward, and he landed a back-spinning hook kick that made contact with his head, then punched him in the nose and made him stumble with a strong right cross! So, the man got up, kneed him in the stomach, punched him in the nose, then sent him skidding along the ground!

But the mercenary, although dazed, got up. He went towards the man again, dodging a strong punch intended for his stomach, and dove for the pistol.

The man (Mikhail) saw Manx, sprinting away like greased lightning, the man on his tail! He dove to the side, shooting Mikhail three times in the temple, watching the mighty Serbian man fall.

He ran to Pyre as fast as he could! The other man was on the ground yelling in pain.

Pyre spit out blood, watching as Manx knelt over him. "Okay, I have to check for the bullet. Did it go in your thigh?"

Pyre nodded, coughed up more blood, and watched as Manx found it. The bullet wasn't deep, but its removal would bring on blood.

Manx took a morphine syringe out and asked a question. "Where do you want me to put the needle?"

Pyre pointed to his shoulder, Manx putting it in instantly. The sensation instantly hit Pyre. He felt the pain, but less so.

"Alright, I'm going to see if I can get the bullet. It's gonna hurt, so I need you to hold on," Manx said.

Pyre watched as Manx put the tweezers in, take the bullet out, and quickly work to disinfect the wound. He wrapped gauze around, tying it tight.

"Where did you learn to do that?" Pyre asked.

"Had this happen to me. A medic did it, then showed me how it worked and explained it all the way through," Manx said

"Is there some reason as to why you need to clean compulsively?" Pyre asked in a dazed voice, since his mind was wandering and the morphine was beginning to do its job. He also was curious, since there wasn't anything going on at the moment.

"OCD," Manx said.

"Just OCD?" Pyre asked.

"Yep," Manx said with visible nerves at the memories Pyre brought up.

"Nothing else?" Pyre asked.

"Nope. OCD makes you clean, do something incessantly. It's uncontrollable and I hate it. Matter of habit and that makes me clean so compulsively," Manx answered nervously.

"I don't believe it. There's more," Pyre said, thoroughly convinced there was more.

"I mean, there was mom. Beat us if we didn't clean, keep things orderly, or if we did as she said. Dad left, mom was a bitch… Yeah. Fun times," Manx said sarcastically.

"Your mom beat you?" Pyre asked.

"Sure. Into every new place we moved. Act out? Beating. Talk back, failing in school, slacking off? Beatings. We learned, she literally beat it into us. So that and all the cleaning, formalities… It's habit now," Manx said, recalling the unpleasant memories.

"So she basically just beat you into line?" Pyre asked.

"Yup. Carried over now. Luckily the military was an option when we moved, because that's where my 4 brothers and I went," Manx said.

"Do you ever hear from her?" Pyre asked, then "I'm sorry if I'm pushing."

"No, no. It's okay. I have her number, I just don't want to get in contact with her and she said she didn't want to contact me," Manx said.

"I get it. Something else happen on top of that?" Pyre asked.

"Doesn't like my girlfriend. Knows I have one, met her once in public, hated her after. Said I wouldn't be marrying that girl and she wants nothing to do with me. Been dating her five years," Manx said.

"Got it. Got… it…" Pyre finished weakly, getting up and leaning on Manx for support as they walked away from the burning mosque.


	9. Chapter 9

Note: I wanted to take a break from this because ideas are hard to come by. I probably made the last chapter a little intense, but I got caught up in it. I was actually having a lot of fun because I felt like I was starting to understand my characters and I could picture where they were and how they may act.

I hope you enjoy the chapter and please, leave me any criticism. I'm running lower on ideas, but that's the beauty. As time goes on, I get to see which ideas I like because this is my work and the freedom of that is having ideas. Also note MLK later on does NOT mean Martin Luther King.

**Chapter 9 **

Pyre woke up on a bed. He was groggy and immediately felt pain as he put weight on the bandage off the side of the bed. Two backpacks were packed and two duffle bags as well. The first thing he assumed was that they were going somewhere.

He got up and out of bed, seeing Manx looking at him. He seemed quite happy Pyre was up and moving.

"Hey, Kev. You're looking better. I've got some coffee brewing in the kitchen," Manx said, knowing Kev was the way to reach the man a bit deeper.

"I'll get it in a bit. Just gotta take my meds. Thanks man," Pyre said gratefully, heading to what he noted was a bathroom from the open door. How had they gotten into this house? Who's house was it?

He stood in the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Huh. Looking at him, he didn't realize he appeared less like he thought he looked, especially now. There wasn't any stubble, no bags under his eyes, and his blonde hair wasn't too greasy. He noted that he looked short in the mirror, that his brown eyes were more noticeable than he had previously thought.

He changed his shirt and on the front of his shoulders above his pectorals, there was a traditional sun tattoo on the left and a moon one on the right side. Symmetrical, from his mother. He loved them.

And on his back, the thunder mark, a symbol of Perun, the Slavic god of thunder. (The thunder mark with several dots.) It was burned on, as were all the other tattoos, symbolizing he was a warrior of his faith, or so he considered himself.

His abs and other muscles were defined and large, having been strained and used. But what protruded the most was the Croatian coat of arms. From the diaspora and a kind old woman whom he spent his childhood with.

The woman who made sure that above all, he never forgot where he came from and that he never forgot his loss after Croatian independence. He had been taught to say that he wasn't an American, but a Croatian who just happened to live in America.

He looked around and saw tablet containers on the counter. One was empty.

"Manx?" he asked into the hallway.

"Yeah?" he called back.

"I should probably let you know my meds are dry," Pyre said.

"Which ones?" Manx asked.

"ADHD. Container's dry," Pyre said.

"Okay. How essential were those?" Manx asked with curiosity.

"Pretty essential. Otherwise, I don't pay attention, I get hyperactive…" Pyre said.

"Okay. How difficult would it be if I said Dodik had a base right here in Junik and that patrolling the town points out loads of militia forces?" Manx said.

"That does raise the stakes," Pyre said, then "How many militiamen?"

"Twenty or thirty. Dodik must not know we're here. I know he's here because everyone was on edge and actually running a patrol, doing their jobs," Manx said, then "The residents are still here. I don't think they've heard about the mosque and they haven't fled yet."

Pyre nodded. "So we're gonna attack them?"

"We sort of have to. This is near the Albanian border, so the violence might spill over if we don't," Manx said.

Although it was about 5 miles, that was really close. The Junik Mountains were snow-covered and their various lakes frozen over. The town was sleepy and the tiny roads and cramped area would make fighting interesting. There were walls in some places, smaller ones along houses. Snow covered the ground, as it did in most places. The roads weren't perfectly paved, but were usable. The snow must have been cracking them. Manx knew from Wisconsin how that played out.

Manx radioed in. "Angela? Are you there? We've got militia only a few miles from the Albanian border."

"Wait, what? You have militia near you?" she asked.

"Looking right out the window at 'em," Pyre said.

"Okay. Okay. Let me think about this," Angela said.

"Violence might spill over into Albania if we don't act," Manx said.

"You're right. But are they well-fortified?" Angela asked.

"No. Saw them bring some guns in and dig a little trench, but nothing we can't take. They've gone around an old mansion," Pyre said.

"Okay, so they're fortified. Probably with communications and machine guns," Angela said.

"We could draw them out," Manx offered.

"How would you do that?" Angela asked.

"We take a machine gun and throw a grenade in. They come out, Pyre mans the gun, I take down the comms," Manx said.

"That could work," Pyre stated.

"Alright. Be careful. The position is not only well-fortified, intel suggests there's an armored car. Stealing that would provide many additional material resources. The choice is yours, but it's loaded with valuables. The militia's stolen money and taking that would get their attention. But if you steal, it's between you two and me," Angela said.

"You wanna make some money?" Pyre called to Manx.

"I've got a better idea. I know you're a little nervous and hyperactive, I'd know. Getting off meds is hard. Do you want me to drive?" Manx asked.

"You drive. I shoot," Pyre said excitedly.

"It's a plan, then. I've got overhead. Be careful, boys," Angela said.

And so it was decided. Manx left Pyre be, went into the basement, opened a storage room, and noticed something. There were guns, ammunition, and explosives. Lots of explosives. And remembering the Irish, he knew what happened when someone had a goal and a lot of explosives. His people remembered.

"Angela?" Manx asked.

"Go ahead," she said.

"What if we bring down the house?" Manx asked.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I mean we bring the house down on those cocksuckers," Manx said.

"The C4? I see it," Angela assured the man.

"The C4. All of it, I wanna use it, steal the car," Manx said.

"When do you wanna do this?" Angela asked.

"I wanna sneak in, plant them, and go. We leave them to burn, steal the armored car. We don't need the money," Manx said.

He went up the stairs, to the bathroom, and called Pyre. "Ask Angela about the plan. We have guns and ammo here."

"Ya don't say?" Pyre said excitedly.

"No, I do say. RPK, some belts, C4. We lay the C4, blow the house, get you in the back of the car with the RPK, finish them off," Manx said.

"That… is awesome," Pyre said, hesitantly.

"Steven Segal could do it better. Not a bad runner up though," Manx said.

"Bruce Willis, any John Woo movie, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jet Li, Bruce Lee, Jackie Chan, wait, not him… Want me to continue?" the other man asked.

"No, no. Let's just stick with this," Manx laughed.

Pyre followed Manx down, boxed up the C4, and the RPK. They began crossing the road quietly once ready, watching for militia on all sides.

Pyre took the case, walked around the house, and began planting the C4 at what looked like weaker points. Manx watched.

"Hold. Militia," he said as he watched.

Pyre stopped, took the case, hopped into the trench, and watched. He crouched. Two militiamen walked overhead, a patrol of the perimeter.

"Dodik's coming. I swear, man. Dobrov's been on our asses," one man said to the other.

"You think Dodik's coming? No. No one here to Pristina ever sees him," the other man said.

"No, I think it's Dodik. Probably wants to use this as a forward base into Albania," the other man said.

"You're full of shit, man. No chance. Here?"

"Here. I mean, think what you want, but… Dodik comes, I bet you my check. Rumors are merited," the first man said.

"You're on. Week's salary, he doesn't come," the other man said.

"Is that a… hostile!" one man shouted, raising his AK to Pyre, who froze.

Manx ran over immediately! Their cover was not going to be blown!

He tackled one, slit their throat, his a roundhouse into the other's head, and stabbed him in the neck and held his mouth, so he was silenced. He dragged one body and then the other, pitching them away.

"Almost done?" Manx asked.

"Almost. One second," Pyre said, then "Done. Let's go."

And then it hit them. Well, not them. But a flare, orange and bright, flew up into the early morning sky. As though drilled (and they were) men scrambled to their pickups!

They saw the armored car, running for it immediately. Manx had the RPK, mostly disassembled and watched as miltia closed in. He urgently threw the machine gun parts and ammo in the back, started the armored car (they had idiotically left the keys in the ignition) and sped off!

"Pyre, get that shit up and going. We've got company!" Manx screamed as he adjusted his seat belt and hitting the remote on the C4, blowing the house down. He also congratulated Pyre on a set-up well done.

Pyre had the gun assembled as valuable time ticked away. A rocket flew through the car, as Pyre was crouching down, hanging on, and reassembling the gun in the cramped compartment and the rocket flew through the windshield!

"Shit, shit! What do we do!?" Pyre screamed.

"Fire. Just keep blasting. I'll try and lose 'em!" Manx screamed back over imminent AK and M4 fire.

"Lose 'em!? You drive like that and you're gonna lose me!" Pyre said as he hung on and tried to aim the machine gun simultaneously. He told himself to breathe.

_10 pickups. Okay. Alright. Breathe, Breathe._

"I'm gonna need you to shoot back!" Manx said as one of the side mirrors came off the side.

"I'm working on it!" Pyre said, aiming the gun and noting a tire on the lead pickup.

He sprayed the machine gun fire, popping the tire and sending the vehicle screaming out of control and into a tree! Manx looked back.

"Nice. Now can you do that again!?" Manx asked.

"I could-" Pyre screamed back, interrupted by gunfire over his head and a clang against his mask from a stray bullet.

He fired another burst, popping the hood of a pickup and then putting several holes in the engine, causing it to stop running.

"Hang on!" Manx screamed as he took a hard right turn.

Pyre fell and the wind came out of him. The gun slid and got caught on a bar in the armored truck. He just barely held on!

"Manx! Pyre's barely hanging on!" Angela screamed into the communications as Manx continued.

"I'm on it!" Manx screamed back into the communications as he drove straight ahead at sixty miles per hour and the doors blew in the wind. What didn't help was the fact that a pickup crashed into the side of the armored vehicle.

"Manx! Slow this down, I don't have much left to hang on to!" Pyre shouted back to Manx angrily after the pickup crashed.

Manx gave Pyre a second to re-adjust, before speeding away.

"Pyre, get that pickup on our side!" Manx shouted.

Pyre didn't need to be asked, as he was already engaging the hard to reach white truck. After a burst went through the windshield, it took out the driver and ended up flying up and rolling out of control. The passenger stuck out and was subsequently then crushed by the vehicle.

"Seven pickups left. How long can we keep this up?" Pyre asked.

"Look out!" Angela screamed into the comms as a pickup pulled up and a man jumped into the back of the armored car.

Pyre was shoved to the ground immediately! This massive man, probably six feet five inches tall and 225 pounds, had Pyre on the ground with a knife edging down to his throat. The man had a massive Kevlar helmet and bulletproof vest on and a balaclava and black, one-way goggles. Standard militia gear, like any other militiamen. The gear was all black.

A gloved hand held Pyre down and so did a black steel-toe boot, meaning Pyre wasn't going to get up. And then he was held to the ground of the car, his head just above the dirt outside!

"Manx! Now would be the time!" Pyre said as pickups began pulling up.

"One second!" Manx shouted as he reversed, sending Pyre and the man flying forward.

Pyre took the slightly stunned man and removed the Kevlar helmet, the goggles, and then he got knocked against a wall and kneed in the face as the man resorted to punching his mask and trying to pry it off, with loud clangs as his head was held in place and he was disoriented. The man pulled a knife and held Pyre's head down, only to be stunned when Pyre grabbed his knife hand and worked his absolute hardest twisting it all the way around.

"Ahhh!" the man screamed in pain as he gripped his hand.

Pyre took the man, and with complete rage, began bashing his head against the wall with his remaining strength, stunning him and giving him a minor concussion, before Pyre picked him up and carried him to the back, throwing the militiamen out and into the crowd of speeding pickups, where he was swiftly run over and a sickening thud filled the air.

Pyre sat down and rested, then readied the gun and continued squeezing the trigger, taking the truck against them and finishing it off, where it went off and slammed into two other pickups and created a pile-up. Four pickups remained, one with an RPG.

"Manx, RPG rockets behind! Be careful!" Pyre shouted back.

As if to illustrate his point, an RPG rocket flew and took out another pickup. That made his job easier.

"Shit, shit! Hang on!" Manx screamed over the gunfire.

In this time, Manx had made a decision. Pyre then removed the RPG and driverwith accurized machine gun fire and was down to one magazine, having two trucks left.

"Pyre, I'm ramming it. We take that one down, the last pickup gets a grenade," Manx said.

Pyre yelled back his understanding and hung on. Manx had snapped in this situation. Why was he suddenly so aggressive? Well, Pyre mulled it over and concluded Manx had been pushed by the need to assure their mutual safety.

Manx was a man of his word, ramming a pickup and hitting it so hard with the armored vehicle that the driver flew forward and the seatbelt lurched him back, concussing him and snapping his neck, while Pyre gunned down the passenger and ran out of ammo.

"I'm dry! Get us out of here!" he screamed, getting a grenade and tossing it at the last pickup.

Manx obliged and the grenade did, too. The last truck exploded in a violent fireball of metal and human flesh, while they drove onward.

Manx noted the lack of pursuers, stopped, and opened the glove compartment. Manx opened the glove compartment and found frozen beers. Someone had done something fantastic on the job. And he popped one open, slugging it and thanking whoever the rebellious armored crew had been. He found Cockta, a Croatian soda with an orange flavor. He tossed it back for Pyre.

"Shit, Cockta! I love Kosovo!" he screamed excitedly as he excitedly guzzled down the caffeinated drink and calmed down. The soda was doing just as Manx had intended. He tossed Pyre a beer and then a Coke, watching as each drink took a unique effect and the ADHD man naturally simmered down.

"So where do we go now?" Manx asked the elated man.

It was Angela who piped up on the radio. "There's a village off in the distance. Try to stay there and get a few things."

They did as they were told and Manx drove the armored van in. He was lucky, at least in his mind, to do what he got to next. He shouted in the square and people ran out of their dilapidated, rusty, sometimes roofless shanties and shacks, as well as smaller stone houses and into the crater-filled square, from where the miltia had fought but been driven back by security forces.

The people instantly noted the open back to the armored car. And they saw a strange looking blonde haired, muscled man wearing a mask with a white coffin and chains around it in a background of flames and an all-black mask. He lifted the mask, smiled, and greeted the people as they came back. They noted his small Croatian coats of arms throughout the vest and back of him and his skinny frame. They didn't want to ask about the holstered pistol or present AK 47 staring them down.

They heard a shout from the front and the muscly man began opening compartments and tossing money out the back. As much as he could. It piled up, bill after bill. People screamed, called their family members out, anything.

A man from the front of the armored vehicle greeted them, slightly taller and with even more muscles. His weapon was a less familiar automatic and a strange shotgun they could see, like the smaller man. He also began unloading bills and tossing them out the back. He was quieter and friendly, but was ordering the smaller man around, who happily did as he was told. The task was soon finished.

"Is there anywhere where we can stay?" the smaller man asked in Croatian.

"Yes. There's a barn about a mile off. Barbed wire, armed guards. The Movement for the Liberation of Kosovo. MLK. Anyone fighting the militia can stay there. Who sent you?" the citizen asked in Croatian.

"T.W.O. Big firm in America. We're here to get the militia out," Pyre said in Croatia.

The citizen laughed. Just laughed. There was no way these two could manage that.

"The MLK can't do it, you two can't. Even the Pink Panther Gang said they're pissed about it. And all they do is steal jewels," the citizen laughed.

"We'll see about that. We'll have Dodik's head in days," Pyre assured the citizen.

"You think it's that easy? Be my guest. But that fucking militia fights like an army," the citizen said in Croatian.

"Lucky thing Corporal Cowell's with me. Those motherfuckers are dead," Pyre told the man confidently.

Now, in the citizen's eyes, that changed a lot. These were the guys the press wouldn't stop fawning over. People across oceans knew about these two, even the man talking to them in person knew who Corporal Cowell and Specialist Pier were. Some of the finest military men to grace the Balkans since the Yugoslav War of the 1990's. Easily better than any Yugoslav soldier he'd ever seen. He'd heard himself of how the Army Rangers and 101st airborne, the men's two former service groups, were the fighting spirit of only the most powerful military in virtual human history. And now they were here in Kosovo, to make things right.

The man walked away with an arm full of cash, Pyre told Manx where the farm was, and they were off.

They made a spectacular entrance into the farm and every gun with a person behind it had trained its sights on the van. And yet the two men had gotten out and they had been ordered to stand down after.

"Who the hell are you!?" a massive Albanian asked as he shoved Manx to the ground.

"Calm down. We were sent by the village," Manx said as calmly and politely as he could while flat on his ass.

Then, Pyre stepped in front of Manx.

"You don't touch him, fuckhead," Pyre growled with anger.

"Pyre, just leave him. It's alright," Manx said.

"No, you listen here, dumbass. You touch him, I will kick your fucking ass like a football," Pyre said angrily.

The Albanian laughed boisterously. "You!? What, you gonna cry so I feel bad and don't beat the shit out of you?"

"You watch it. Fuck with me and I will end you. END. YOU," Pyre finished.

"Kev, leave him. Just let it go," Manx said as he got up and dusted himself off.

The Albanian laughed again and Pyre shoved him, flat onto his ass. He slid a few more feet afterwards and must have been absolutely stunned at the smaller man's strength.

"Kev. Come here, man. It's okay. You're alright. No one wants to start anything," Manx said as he squeezed the man's shoulders and slowly lead him away, talking quietly to calm him down, knowing Kev was the easiest way to reach him deep down.

"Look at me. You're alright. Alright. I get it. He's ugly. I wanna bash his brain in with my rifle's stock, but we can't. I know you're used to having to pick fights to get by and it wasn't fair that you had to do that. But I need you here with me right now. We don't belong here and our press reputation is poor. So just relax. There's no need to fight. I really appreciate you standing up for me, but we need to relax," Manx said honestly and appreciatively to the man.

Pyre took a deep breath, closed his eyes, internalized his partner's words, and came back to reality. He was amazed his partner would admit to wanting to bash the man's head in. He never thought Manx could be violent and he genuinely didn't understand why Manx didn't want him to protect him, at least in his mind. Manx had comforted him and listened to his story, and truly got what he had gone through. If that wasn't a friend worth standing up for, he didn't know what was.

He remembered Salem's words. And he had mentally decided that Manx was his partner and his brother, because he was the only one who'd given Pyre a chance and never given up on him so far. It made him absolutely happy to the point of tears to know that Manx cared about him when no one else did. So, even if he didn't want to say it, he wasn't sure how to appropriately express he wanted to support Manx and never learned of an appropriate way to support someone, because he'd genuinely never had the chance before. But he knew that even if Manx didn't explicitly say it, they were partners and brothers until death undid that.

He flashed back to the present and Manx stood behind him, squeezing his shoulders and whispering quietly to get him to stay calm while walking with him as he had known to do when his four brothers, all younger, were upset and acted out. He was treating Pyre like he assumed any older brother would, not realizing he meant so much to Pyre, who'd never had someone seriously supporting him. But as he did think about it, they were partners and brothers. And Salem was right. Only death undid that.

By this time, the Albanian was looking back and had taken stock of his injuries. Burn from the brief sliding on his back and a shattered ego. He saw the smaller man barely hanging on to his self control. As to why the man had snapped he could only guess.

"Look, I'm really sorry. We've been fighting the militia and haven't been sleeping well. We're both just a little tired. Are we cool?" Manx asked, holding out his hand.

The big Albanian had calmed down, and shook the small Croatian's hands. He saw a small Croatian coat of arms on one part of his chest and understood.

The leader had scene the coat of arms, too. As a former Yugoslav citizen, he too had noted the acting out and need to defend one's own, as was a Croatian value. He understood that seeing the two make eye contact and hold it meant a bond. A major bond where they each really valued the other. The smaller man must have defended the man in the red mask as an expression of not only support, but of considering the larger man one of his own.

"So, what brings you two to the headquarters of the Movement for the Liberation of Kosovo?" the Kosovar asked.

He had flown flags of Kosovo around the headquarters and was short, stocky, had balding brown hair, and noticeably white, but not pale, skin.

"We need some place to stay. I'm Corporal Max Cowell and this is Specialist Kevin Pier. We're looking for a place to stay before going out and fighting the militia. We've been hired by an Albanian businessman to take them out of Kosovo," Manx said.

"I see. In that case, we're on the same side. The press is quite vocal about you two," the man said, then "We would be happy to have you and we look forward to any chance of working with you to fight the militia."

Manx looked around with Pyre after the man left. Rusty and old wooden buildings and the surrounding area was filled with craters. A barn and a few animal noises confirmed that this was indeed a farm, and Manx saw rusted buildings with crops inside, probably to keep them there and fed. This wasn't a farm, this was a fort. There were walls everywhere to attack from and barbed wire on every side. They were fortified and needed to fight the militia. There weren't more than 200 of them and they had not much more than hay floors or mattresses on the floor, maybe sleeping bags, to sleep in. The chow hall and living quarters were probably huts and bunks, as Manx though about it.

As night fell in a few hours, Manx was out cold. He slept soundly and Pyre smiled and watched him for a minute or two, before he heard Angela coming on the radio.

"I know you're probably used to Manx saying this, but I thought you were brave protecting him. You stand up for him and that's a great quality," Angela said.

"Thanks. I've never really had any support like him, if I'm honest. He's the first person who really gave a shit about me. I've never really told anyone that," Pyre said.

"Look... I heard the conversation when you two liberated the village. I know. I'm sorry if that makes you angry, but I need to know because I am your mission coordinator and need to keep an eye on your health and well being, especially for future operations," Angela said, wanting to let Pyre know she knew without Manx hearing.

"No, no. It's alright. It's your job, and Manx can't do everything. I guess I should thank you and give you some credit," Pyre said kindly.

"Not a problem. It's my pleasure to help. Look, seeing you two stand up for one another like that... I wanted to ask you something," she said.

"Go ahead. I'm all ears," Pyre said warmly.

"Well, firstly, I'm here if you ever need to talk. Manx really can't do everything, but pretty close. Secondly, I was wondering if after Kosovo you wanted to take a break from ops and we could get a cup of coffee sometime?" Angela asked.

"This a date? If not, I'm gonna bring Manx," Pyre asked with uncertainty and a hint of excitement in his voice.

"Nope, not a date, but no need to bring Manx. Are you up for getting coffee with me at some point?" Angela asked.

"Yeah, if we can catch a break. I'd be happy to go on a date," Pyre said, laughing after the word date.

"Not a date... I told you that," Angela sighed with feigned frustration.

He couldn't see all the way back to Miami. But if he could, he'd see Angela beaming from ear to ear. After all, this was her idea. And Manx obviously was already taken, as the record had shown and he had told Pyre not long ago. Whether or not this was professional, Angela didn't particularly care. It wasn't going to hurt the company record if it didn't go poorly and being around Pyre's age... It made sense to her.

Meanwhile, Pyre was realizing how his life was really looking up. He had Manx watching his six and he had whatever this was. He wasn't sure where this would go, but he hoped it would go well. Because as he thought about it, he really did want to go for coffee with Angela. He went outside and, under the cover of darkness, buried the 1911 and the alcohol he felt he didn't need anymore.

Back in Armenia, Salem and Rios had spent a lavish day in the mansion. The businessman for whom they were working had money he had no qualms about flaunting. And that didn't necessarily upset them, because it let them use a paintball course, a massive room inside covered in sand, which let them use dune buggies the businessman had two of, and a giant indoor swimming pool.

The personal chef had made them a gourmet meal and there had been a massive party and dinner in the men's honor, along with a constantly stocked bar with an attendant to stock it on hand and a personal bartender, and garden where Rios could go and relax in the event that he had had enough of Salem being himself for a little bit. Although Rios was asleep in a massive king sized bed, Salem lay awake wondering how the job would go and the excitement of getting nearly unfettered access to the most fun he'd had in a long time. And then he remembered the master bathroom, which had a Jacuzzi he went off to check out alone.


	10. Chapter 10

Note: I have recently given up my computer and have been trying to use my home device as much as possible. I still have to learn the ins and outs of using it by pasting something for a document. Since publishing the last chapter, I remembered Pyre was from Croatia. Apparently that reopened to Americans not too long ago. One email, no response, and I got a flag a few days ago as I write on August 1st. (Someone else did this first.)

The consulate also sent me a desk flag. It looks awesome and I couldn't be happier. If there's anything I've learned from writing, it's that the Balkans are interesting and we're lucky to have the ability to travel and experience other cultures. The Croatian Consulate in Chicago had my package in a few days and I had it in my mailbox on Wednesday the 29th, I think it was. I recently learned embassies and consulates are complicated.

Anyways, that's it. Thank you if you've been reading. **Throughout the course of this please note I am not a veteran and only can read about and watch TED talks on what combat is like and what it does to people.** Also, let me take the time to say I put city names down without the accented letters to save effort. In particular, you will find this with Peja, Kosovo. It has other names and for this and other accents, I went with the easiest route. They have multiple different names based on language. The cities are named different things, so I went with convenience. That's it. Enjoy!

**Chapter 10**

Bushwhack and his Irish partner, Tab, were sitting in a TWO locker room after an exercise. Bushwhack turned to Tab. The younger man looked even more confident than he usually did, quite a bold statement. It was the morning of the 24th and their last flight exercise had gone extremely well. Tab had hit over 90 percent of the things he was shooting at and they'd completed their exercise in record time.

The man who'd been overseeing the exercises walked in.

"You guys have great chemistry. Been doing some good work so far," he told the two men.

Tab had been putting on deodorant after a shower but had heard the compliment. "Thank you, sir."

He was well toned and had bruises on his shoulder from the constant kick of the rifle, making impressions of the stock on his skin. It made him sore and it hurt. The bruises proved he was out of practice. His brown eyes looked down and examined the bruises, wincing when he tested the arm's movement. He had a skinny but surprisingly sturdy frame. It was a wonder to Bushwhack how the rifle didn't throw him around. Minor lacerations on his legs from the net holding him in place and he began to notice the toll the combat exercise took on him.

"Thanks. He takes turbulence like I take a Wisconsinite laughing at my accent. A Wisconsinite, laughing at me! It happens," Bushwhack said.

He got a look of confusion from Tab.

"That means not well. They think we're rednecks and whatnot. Then I remind them they're cheeseheads and their roads are about as good as a raging brush fire. And that yous isn't proper English. But that's how you take turbulence, kid. Like grass to a brush fire," Bushwhack finished.

Tab frowned slightly, but he agreed. He didn't take turbulence, but he supposed a pilot would think that. Then he remembered he knew next to nothing about actually flying a helicopter.

Tab went back off to a sink to look in the mirror and check for bags under his eyes. They'd been training at some abysmal hours, sometimes before 3 A.M.

"Where's he going?" the man who'd been overseeing their exercises asked.

"With him? No idea," Bushwhack said.

"Sweeet Caroline!" Tab sang off-key.

"Bum, bum, bum. Theeee deal is done! So done, so done!" Bushwhack sang back, referencing the deal they'd made about no stories and no singing.

"Hey, you tried to tell me about the time you almost flew a helicopter into a powerline!" Tab yelled back.

"No, I didn't. The pilot gets the radio. I'm playin' John Edmond when we get back to it!" Bushwhack yelled.

"Who's John Edmond?" the supervisor asked.

"Singer from the Bush War. My Uncle kind of got me hooked on him the last time we talked," Bushwhack said.

"Oh. Okay," the supervisor said, pretending to know what it was.

"Hey, Tab! I'm playin' the Troopiesongs Complete album on repeat!" Bushwhack shouted, then "Maybe that'll make you sing less."

"Don't you dare!" Tab shouted back.

Bushwhack picked a John Edmond song and sang some of it.

"That, the whole time! We're listening to that!" Bushwhack shouted.

"Well, then I have to sing it. That's clearly what you want," Tab said back.

"No, no. Not at all. I could sing, though," Bushwhack said back to his partner.

Tab frowned. An old man, in his eyes, singing? Songs he'd never heard by a singer he didn't know. The old man had a poor taste in music if it was the guy he was thinking of.

"You two seem to be alright. I'll leave you to it," the supervisor said, walking away after the long banter.

Tab finished and Bushwhack washed his face and took care of that morning's wood.

"Need some coffee? I'm pouring," Bushwhack said.

"Yeah. That'd be great," Tab said, then breaking into song again as they went up the stairs and out of the locker room. Bushwhack sighed loudly.

They found a lounge that was vacant. It was like a college, with a clean stainless steel refrigerator, oven, and several side tables and sets of foldable chairs, and a few small tables. There were two coffeemakers in the room, a light gray to go with the rest of the appliances and kitchen. The cupboards were mahogany and likely too nice for what was needed. The room had garbage, recycling, television with several game consoles, and many games, including all of the newest games on PC, XBOX, and Playstation. Also present was a massive cream colored couch and armchairs on either side, contrasting with the white walls with their cream color.

Bushwhack got the coffee maker brewing and soon had a cup for him and one for his partner. His partner had managed to get himself into the company Playstation account, opened _Call of Duty: Black Ops_, and was taking turns playing the campaign with Bushwhack. Most of their time was spent dying to ludicrous enemies and laughing about how unrealistic the combat was. The game served as a refresher for Bushwhack because he was not even remotely a video game savant and hadn't played one since about 20 years prior. So it was a learning experience.

Overseas in Armenia, Salem and Rios were having a different situation. The businessman who had acquired their services was getting down to... well, business. A political player had been funding various organized crime groups in Armenia. All there was to do was collect intelligence and fight any criminals that got in the way of arresting the man immediately or taking him out in what would look like an accident.

At the moment, they were sitting around a massive table. Circular and made of hickory with tasteful Armenian table decorations and fine cutlery and glasses. It was a dinner solely for the three men. The lighting was just right, candles lit, and a butler and server present. What they were having were salmon and grilled asparagus and herb roasted potatoes. Salem grinned widely. He had never had nor seen a meal like this before.

"I'm sure you two are hungry. Please, dig in. We have a lot to discuss," the businessman smiled and said pleasantly.

"Here? Don't be silly. You've been feeding us like royalty," Salem said back.

"Yeah. We really hope it isn't a problem. We're not trying to dry you out or anything," Rios said.

"Oh no, it's quite alright. It's my pleasure to be able to host you two. If you're going to be working hard, you just as much should play hard," the Armenian joked, then "I assume you know what we're here to discuss?"

"Of course, sir. The contract," Salem said.

"You're very astute. You take after your corpulent friend there. Now, you two have four days. 30 million, each day that it isn't complete, your pay falls by five million," the man said.

"Should we go the arrest or accidental death route?" Rios asked.

"I would suggest the accidental death route. The three of us are well-removed from the nation's political scene and the man himself," the businessman said.

Salem whispered to Rios. "Hey, Corpulo, or whatever... Didn't we say no assassination?"

"Would you excuse us one moment? My partner needs to go to the bathroom and told me he's not feeling well," Rios said.

"Of course. It happens to everyone," the businessman agreed, waving them off as Salem feigned holding his stomach in pain.

Once they found a small and well-removed, out of sight alcove, they began talking.

"Rios, you said no to assassinations. I hate this political shit," Salem said.

"We may not necessarily have to go that route. I don't want to do it either, but we're working on it. And what ever happened to mister "consider the payout?" Rios asked, making air quotes.

"That ended when I learned we were killing a political figure. That never ends well!" Salem said.

"We'll change it to arrest. Trust me. Just get the guy to release the information," Rios said.

"Well, we can't do that. I also want the big bucks," Salem said.

"Well... We'll get paid. I'll check with him. I'm sure we can make it work," Rios said.

Back in Miami, Angela's phone rang. The guys had been moving smoothly and so she picked it up. William Kenneth, the PR manager, had called her again. He decided to inform her of the results of the press conference.

"Ms. Weaver? I let them know. The press has decided to stop looking for a while, but I'm not sure how long it will work. Do you understand that if this gets bad enough, we need to tell Mr. Salem and Mr. Rios? To get our guys moved out securely," the man said.

"I understand, Mr. Kenneth. As I'm probing over the articles now, you seem to have put out the fire. No one save the occasional tabloid is seriously looking into Specialist Pier or Corporal Cowell," she said.

"Well, that's how we want it. The less attention the better. I'll release a statement to one of our spokespeople, to tell them that the operation is going smoothly. Have you ascertained their location?" the man asked.

"A little bit outside of Junik. They were just in a village. They left that, about a mile out. Don't tell the press they're close to the Albanian border," Angela said.

"I'll tell them we have contact and are working busily to ascertain their current situation," Mr. Kenneth said.

"Wouldn't that go over poorly?" the woman responded.

"Then I suppose we'll just have to say they're safe, outside of Junik, and haven't recently experienced any issues," Mr. Kenneth told the woman.

"How do we explain the burning trucks full of militia?" Angela asked.

"We'll deal with that when we come to it, Miss Weaver. Bye now," the man said, hanging up.

What was coming was a snag. If the public assumed the contractors they were rooting for had gotten hurt, T.W.O. would have its hands full. If an operation went to the press as this one had, they needed to make sure the men were alright. If that wasn't the case, the press would turn up the heat and start firing on all cylinders trying to ascertain the men's location for themselves there on out. If they were to do that, they might pinpoint and report on the men's exact location and it would become a game of cat and mouse to avoid the press.

She called into the two contractors. Knowing their exact location was key.

"Manx, Pyre? Where are you two?" the woman asked.

Manx answered the rude awakening. "In a rebellion fort on the outside of Prilep, a small village. Something we gotta do?" Manx asked.

"Stay hidden. The press is looking for you two again," Angela said.

"We tend to have that effect. They think we're dead?" Pyre asked.

"No, they think we're hiding you. They want full tabs on where you are because apparently we're purposely withholding information," Angela said.

"Hold on. Did you have the chance to tell them?" Manx asked.

"No. Our PR manager is saying outside of Junik. So either stay hidden or get moving into an urban area. Because they are checking every village. You won't blend in," Angela said.

"Got it. Peja's half an hour away. We could meet them in person," Pyre suggested.

Manx didn't like the idea. He knew Angela would echo that sentiment, but they may as well expose themselves. The press couldn't be avoided and he knew it. So why not appear quickly, let the public know they were safe, and disappear?

"Angela, let's appear in Peja. It's a major Kosovan city. We would be noticed. The press would be there already. Let's talk, then disappear. No one will know where we go then," Manx said.

"Alright, I'll be watching. Go ahead," Angela said.

They quickly requisitioned transport. They soon had a van with a driver and a few AK armed men taking them to Peja.

They arrived in the town within 30 minutes. The van smelled of mold and had visible bullet holes and marks from water damage. This was not a well-equipped resistance movement. Especially when compared with the militia. What greeted them upon their entry into the town fascinated them. Beautiful hills in every direction, albeit covered in snow. They could see the Patriarchal Monastery, a UNESCO world heritage site. It was a Serbian Orthodox Church established in the 13th century. There was a nearby canyon, the Rugova Canyon. Ottoman, Slavic, and a myriad of other ethnic buildings and structures could be found, giving the snow-covered city an odd but fitting jigsaw puzzle-like mix.

"When you two are here, be careful. This city is only about 8 miles, but over 40,000 live here. There's a train station if you need it but stow the gear. Watch your mouths, because this is a cultural epicenter. Militia still hasn't made it here, thanks to us," one of the armed men said to the two mercenaries.

The two mercenaries thanked the driver and armed MLK members before going on their way.

"Wanna go check out the church while we're here?" Manx asked.

"Sure. Can't hurt to rush head-on into a paparazzi storm," Pyre said.

The walk to the Orthodox Church was brief. Pyre saw one camera flash. And that was all it took for him to want to turn back.

"I hate to do this to you, man. But you know we're not getting away from that," Manx said as Pyre realized the inevitability of an interview. Or just a gaggle of camera-waving nuisances.

In Pyre's mind, the press seemed like mosquitoes. They weren't a problem, they just wouldn't go away. He could use repellent, Manx as a human shield, anything short of pulling out a weapon and firing at them wasn't going to make them go away. And whatever he did would spread. Like a group of popular, yet shallow and gossipy high school girls, anything he did was going to be known to everyone. If things weren't worse, Manx wasn't his usual extrovert self. He had become quieter. He would stay with Pyre. But he didn't seem to want to engage the press. Which was alright, because the press simply decided they would force him to.

Angela came on the comms. "Boys, I know this is a bit late. But they've been looking into Pyre. Quite extensively. His mental health, family, they're even trying to get ahold of his medical records and what he was like as a child. Pyre, be careful. They're going to try to make you snap at them to further their tabloid or whatever. About your insanity. Don't give any ammunition to them."

"Specialist Pier! Specialist Pier! Over here! Matilda Hinkleman for the Daily Mail! Was the armored car and trail of burning pickups a result of your actions? Did you kill them?" one newswoman shouted to Pyre.

"I don't know. Was your newspaper part of the problem in the poor coverage of asylum seekers in Britain, actually leading parliament to talk about the coverage?" Pyre asked.

The woman put her head down. Now she knew Pyre had definitely killed someone.

"Jeez, Pyre. You know their gonna use that," Manx said.

"I know," Pyre responded calmly, then "What'll they think of next, woman eats squid and gets pregnant?" (On a side note to the reader, the Daily Mail **actually did** write an article on this.)

"Corporal Cowell! Over here! What is it like being back in combat?" a CNN reporter asked.

"I dunno. Feels like the old days. You guys don't leave us alone and try to get ahold of information us against our permission," Manx said.

This was true. The Daily Mail, CNN, NBC, and a host of other papers had tried this.

"What is it like killing another person?" asked another reporter.

"I'm gonna request you ask a different question," Pyre said.

"That's my question. You called on me. The public has the right to know," the man said.

"Alright. Ask another veteran or I'll remember soon," Pyre said.

"He doesn't mean that," Manx said, then "Just... Don't ask us that. Please. You could do very serious damage to someone asking that."

Manx had averted a potential public relations disaster for the company. But the CNN reporter persisted.

"Corporal Cowell, I'm writing on the psychological effects of taking a life. I need commentary and the public deserves to hear from a veteran," the man said.

"Alright. Here. It eases boredom. Combat is 80 percent waiting for something to happen, 19 percent remembering we're expendable, the feeling the whole world is against us, checking on our men, and patrolling. Then it's one percent actually fighting and hoping to god we don't die or go nuts," Manx said.

He did his best to walk away from the reporter. More showed up and Manx saw a white van pull up. And an AK armed militiamen came out.

BANG! A shot rang out and Manx dove to the ground, then rolled and drew his H&K.

"Why are they here?" Manx asked Pyre.

"Think about it. Serbian church, Serbian militia, chance to kill us," Pyre said.

"Well, if they knew where we were, they may be back on our comms," Manx said.

The members of the press screamed and fled. Several went down, with the cameramen doing their best to keep an eye on the van and the scene.

"Pyre! Are there people here!?" Manx shouted into the comms.

"Affirmative. A group of Albanians tried to worship here," Pyre said, then "No idea why. Dumb, dumb idea."

"Give me some cover. I wanna get in that van," Manx said.

Pyre obeyed. He began to lay cover fire as Manx maneuvered around and began slitting the militiamen's throats. One looked young and he lifted up the ski mask.

"Pyre... These guys are kids! They have fucking children working for 'em!" Manx said over the gunfire into the comms.

"Why is that one running toward the church?" Pyre asked into the comms, referencing a bulging militant.

Manx realized at once and shouted into the comms. "Bomb! Bomb! Kill him!"

The van was clear and Pyre moved. Manx shot the man and watched as he was about to pull a cord.

"No! Stay the fuck down!" Manx said as he disoriented the man and tied his hands away from the cord, working to remove the bomb. He soon succeeded.

As the chaos died down and Pyre ran to Manx and crouched and checked the perimeter around him, a voice came over loud and clear.

"I see you've met the Young Guard of the Free State," the man said, then "That's what happens if you interfere in my business. I send in the kids and the bomb."

"Listen here, Dodik. We're coming for you. That shit won't work," Pyre said.

"I beg to differ. It works on multiple levels," Dodik said, then "Bye now. I trust I won't be seeing you again."

At this moment, Manx saw a red timer. His eyes went wide. He had cuffed a child, killed another, and now a bomb was active.

"Pyre, go evacuate the rest of the tourists! I'll take care of this," Manx said.

Pyre didn't need to be told twice. He went where any tourists were, fired a weapon, and loudly demanded in Croatian that they leave. He came back after he was satisfied that the people were gone.

"Pyre, this bomb is strong enough to blow everything in what I would assume is a few hundred feet in any direction. That being said, I found some wires. The bomb is improvised and we've got one minute. What do I do?" Manx asked, trying to stay calm.

"I don't know! I never defused bombs! Uh... Cut a wire. If we're wrong, at least we don't have to worry," Pyre said.

"Wait, everyone evacuated the church. I've got an idea, but I don't think you'll like it," Manx said.

Pyre nodded.

"We put it in the church. Throw it in there, run away," Manx said as he ran.

He threw the bomb inside. They ran as if there was no time to spare. Which there wasn't.

"Any second now," Pyre said.

"Congratulations, boys. You have officially destroyed a cultural monument," the voice said as the bomb loudly exploded and the church collapsed in a ball of flames.

The area was very open and had benches and fancy pathways. The monastery had a garden and was normally the highlight of the area. It remained such, albeit without about half of the building.

"What did we just do, man?" Manx asked. He was wide-eyed and in complete shock, at the destruction they'd just committed.

"We saved the day. Now c'mon, I don't wanna be here anymore," Pyre said as he yanked a frightened Manx up and took off his gear in an isolated area, leaving the man in normal street clothes. He had no idea how well Dodik's psychological damage had worked.

Back in Armenia, Salem yelled and ran to Rios.

"Tyse! Tyse! Our guy is at an abandoned airport getting on a plane to leave the country. I just got a tip. But we have to move now!" Salem said.

"Salem, I'm taking a shit. How are we supposed to go?" Rios asked angrily.

"Stop shitting?" Salem offered.

"It's not something I can just turn off," Rios called back.

"Too bad. You coming or not?" Salem asked.

"I said when I'm done. Did you hear me?" Rios called back.

"Did you hear me?" Salem asked.

"I did. But right now, I have more important things to worry about," Rios said.

"Okay, chunky. I'm going. See if you and your wide load can keep up," Salem said, laughing and running as he heard Rios wash his hands as quickly as possible.

"Salem! Get back here before I wring your skinny neck out!" Rios screamed as he walked out of the bathroom.

"Oh, hey. Ready to go make big bucks?" Salem asked excitedly.

Salem ran and ducked and weaved, avoiding an incensed Rios and hopping into the passenger seat of a jeep. He locked the doors.

"Salem! This is not funny! Open the door!" Rios shouted.

"No. Not until you promise me we're getting jet skis. After we're done, I wanna buy jetskis," Salem said, referencing what should be done with the spare money from their job.

"Fine. My name is fubsy and we'll get jetskis, I promise. Are you happy?" Rios asked.

"Ready to burst out laughing, fubsy. Now come on, we have to make up for lost time!" Salem shouted as Rios started the car and remembered fubsy was an actual word, an obsolete form of chubby.

Salem and Rios drove their car along back roads, having covered the license plate. They sped through residential areas, weaved and bobbed through traffic, made sudden turns, sudden stops, and reached the airport gate in record time, speeding directly through the gate and to the airstrip.

The airport was a shoddy excuse for such a thing. Weeds were growing on the airstrip, the snow was flooding the roofs of the old buildings, there wasn't a tower, and the hangars were looking as though they were ready to collapse. They saw a single floatplane taking off. Guards on the airstrip saw the two men and opened fire! The two contractors dove for cover!

"Why didn't you just let me finish my dump!?" Rios shouted.

"Because this is way more exciting!" Salem responded sarcastically as he fired his M4 over his head and a coordinator called in.

Rios' M249 rang empty. "I'm reloading! Cover me! I'll tell Angela this is not a good time!"

"On it, fubsy!" Salem shouted.

"What's going on, Angela!?" Rios shouted over the fire.

"Our boys just prevented a terrorist attack and killed child soldiers. There's gonna be a press storm and I was told to talk to you two by Mr. Kenneth," she told them.

"Great! Can it wait, Weaver!? We're kinda busy!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Salem saw an open crate. Rockets. And next to them, what should there be except launchers? Illegal weapon shipments tended to work that way.

Rios had the SAW reloaded in no time flat and continued firing. "Salem, get away from those RPGs! There are at least 10 guys who are ready to cut you down!" Rios shouted.

Salem grabbed an RPG, some rockets, and ran gleefully behind cover with Rios distracting the enemy. He grabbed the other man's attention.

"Rios, RPG! We can use it on the plane!" Salem shouted.

"You got it. I've got your six, move on three. One, two-"

BOOM!

The rocket hit on of the plane's wings and left it unable to take off, just as it was about to. Salem continued loading and firing rockets, leaving the plane without a wing and the compartments devoid of life.

"Rios, our guy is dead. Let's go!"

"Not yet, Salem!" Rios said as he held the last group in focus. After Salem covered him, he unleashed several accurized bursts. The result was the death of the remaining guards.

"Now what?" Salem asked as he showed Rios proof of the weapon shipments.

"We talk to Weaver and get lunch. She's still on," Rios said.

"Whaddya wanna eat? Because if you have no ideas, then-" Salem said, only to be cut off.

"I know. We'll get pizza. Now what happened, Angela?" Rios asked.

"Our boys killed child soldiers for the militia, stopped death but not a bombing at some patriarchy church in Peja, Kosovo. And our guy died in Hadum Mosque, a sniper," Angela said.

"Jeez. What have you done so far?" Rios asked.

"I've gotten in touch with the businessman's CEO. He agreed to take over the contract. But I'm debating pulling our guys out," Angela said.

"Okay. Keep the contract going. Thanks for running it by us, Weaver. Rios out," Rios said as he ended the conversation.

"What the hell was that!?" Salem shouted with a burning plane in the background.

"What? We have to keep business moving. I know our boys can do it," Rios said.

"Do it? Get them the fuck out, Rios. They just stopped... two bombings," Salem said as he pulled up the press coverage on his phone.

"Exactly. They're a hit and the press won't leave them alone. We have to milk this," Rios said.

"Well, you're the boss. After all, we'd hesitated giving this job to anyone, so sure, just let the newbies work. Don't save them. They're not under pressure. I'm an idiot," Salem finished sarcastically.


	11. Chapter 11

Note: Sorry that posts have been slow. The school year is starting soon and I only recently got a laptop... Which can't use this website. Now I'm writing at whatever computer I can. I'm trying to reign the story in, too. It's been moving all over the place and seems like it isn't going anywhere. Thank you for understanding and if you've been reading. I hope you enjoy it.

**Chapter 11**

Manx didn't have the words to describe what he had done. They walked back to look at the scene. A militiaman, militiaboy really, lay dead on the snow surface. The snow was stained red by the blood and the expression on his face was one of surprise, fear, and shock. His eyes never closed. Just stared. The blood splayed out under him like some sick, liquid snow angel.

"Pyre, what did we do? Look at him! Is this what we signed up for?" Manx asked.

"I don't know. A lot of things weren't in the contract. Shit like this," Pyre said.

"Why is it like this? Why do I only feel bad now? But in combat, killing doesn't hurt? How come it never hurt before?" Manx asked as he felt tears come on.

"Because these were kids. There wasn't a squad, and you weren't ordered to do it. Yet somehow, we did what we had to do," Pyre said.

"That's just it. We don't have to do this. We're not under orders. There's no reason to be here," Manx said.

Angela wasn't the queen of entrances. And now, no one would accuse her of being said royalty.

"Then you two aren't going to like what I have to say. But Andri's CEO just locked us into the contract," Angela said.

"Do Salem and Rios know?" Manx asked, predicting the fallout from a mile away and as tears were beginning to fall.

"No. I'll tell them. Is Manx alright?" Angela asked, hearing the noise of snot being forced back into a nose.

"We need a minute. The bastards sent children on us," Pyre said.

"Wait. Child soldiers!?" Angela asked.

"Yup. We just killed some children," Pyre said, then "Can you go off comms for a minute? I want to talk to Manx."

"Sure. Let me know when to come back," Angela said, leaving her station.

"Look, man. We can't make this better. It's like Salem said. No matter what, we're together for this. We're brothers," Pyre said.

"But look at this! A burning building, children we just shot! I don't think I can do this anymore," Manx said trying to get ahold of himself.

"Look at me. Come here," Pyre said as he put Manx's head on his shoulder and pulled him in, then "You aren't responsible for this. Dodik is. Relax. You're alright and we'll finish this."

"How?" Manx asked.

"We're gonna find Dodik. And he's gonna pay. We can do this," Pyre said confidently.

He got Manx up. They let Angela speak.

"Alright, Angela. Go ahead," Pyre said.

"Right. So, the militia has an elementary school held hostage. Because you're in Peja, it's about ten minutes away. Get a car, take the M9 for a while, get onto the R236, onto the R101, then finally the R106, take a right, drive a bit, two more rights, and you're in town," Angela said, then "I missed a lot of details, but I can guide you."

They broke into a car with ease, hotwiring it and ensuring the tank was full. The red gas-guzzling beast hadn't worked immediately, remaining stubborn as though it were a final front against the new owners. But Manx was persistent and the car eventually gave in.

The drive to Vitomiricë took about 13 minutes. The road was intact and the snow barely hindered their progress. They made it into town and were parked right outside the school in another 5 minutes.

"This is the place," Angela informed the men.

What they pulled up to was a shell of where children likely shouldn't have been. A basketball hoop standing all alone, two soccer goals with no net. A large building with brick-colored shingles in a trapezoid type of shape. The building seemed to be two stories and looking from one side, appeared to have about 26 classrooms, but that could have been wrong. The building was two stories, had graffiti on it, and what looked to be a small addition. The white curtains were all drawn closed across every room, which didn't beckon the mercenaries any closer. It meant someone was in there.

The two men slowly sidled up to the building and stayed low. They drew their rifles and were careful to avoid contact.

"SNIPER!" Manx shouted as he tackled Pyre down. A shot rang out and just missed Pyre's head!

"All right, let's enter from the back. They won't see it!" Manx said as he engaged the sniper.

Pyre moved around to the back of the building. He kicked the door and it flew open with a loud thud!

The two mercenaries charged in, dodging overturned desks and open classrooms to where the sniper was. There had been a struggle here. They noticed a teacher on the ground crying.

"What happened?" Manx asked calmly.

"They've got my kids. They're in that room!" the woman cried, pointing off towards the end of the hallway.

"Did they hurt you?" Pyre asked.

He noted her unbuttoned shirt. They had.

"Pyre, watch the rear. I'll take point," Manx said.

"Affirmative," Pyre responded as they went down the hallway.

They arrived at the doorway soon after. They each readied a pistol and Manx shot the lock, rendering the door useless once Pyre kicked it.

They encountered resistance immediately. A militiaman fired, only to be shot immediately between the eyes by Pyre for his efforts. Another fired right after! The Makarov round glanced off of Pyre's mask with a thickening screech on metal. He went down immediately.

Manx didn't think twice. Barely once. He dove down and checked Pyre for injuries immediately, gun at the ready as two militiamen took cover. Pyre lifted his head up and shot one of the militiamen who tried to shoot Manx. He took another round to the mask and his head went back down.

Suddenly, a militiaman grabbed a child and held a gun to their head. The child was petrified and did nothing more than stand there and breath, wide-eyed at the unfolding scene.

"No funny moves. Put it down. Put the gun down," the militiamen said.

Manx did it. He put the gun down. The man let the child go and held his gun up, approaching Manx carefully. He glanced at Pyre on the ground, who didn't move. The militiaman then grabbed Manx's hands and began tying them. Manx responded in kind, taking the man's gun, firing it empty into the air while holding him back, and then tackling him.

Manx looked to the window. He got off of the militiaman and summoned all of his strength. He threw the man, breaking the glass as he went hurling out the window and down onto the pavement below, dead from the impact.

"That, kids, is why you stay in school," Manx said in heavy breaths.

He looked at Pyre and checked for a pulse. He was relieved to find a steady and stable one. He picked up his partner and went with him over his shoulder.

"That's all of them, Manx. No more hostages," Angela said.

"Thanks, Angela. Lemme get out of here and take a breather," Manx said.

He was soon out of the building sitting down on the pavement. Uncomfortably near the expired militiaman. Pyre came to in a matter of minutes, his first sight being what Manx had done.

"Hey, good to see you. You alright?" Manx huffed, trying to regain his breath after the confrontation.

"I think so. Bastards did a number on my head. Was that you?" Pyre asked as he pointed to the body and the shattered window up above.

"Yup. He shot you, so I threw him and made sure he fell 20 feet to his death," Manx said.

"Jesus, man. I did not think you could be that violent," Pyre said.

"Think again," Manx said.

"I will. God, we can't keep doing this. Every time we come here, something goes to shit. Every time. Nothing has gone right since we got here. When can we just go home?" Pyre asked in an exasperated and defeated voice.

"I don't know. I don't know. But we're gonna get through this. We're all these people have," Manx said.

"People. Our health doesn't matter? At some point, we gotta worry about ourselves," Pyre said.

"What are you talking about?" Manx asked.

"Well, I just took a few rounds to the head. Every time with this. It just does not fucking end!" Pyre shouted.

"It will. We can do this. Just trust me and we'll get through this together," Manx said.

"That's the problem with you. You're all optimistic, shit hits the fan. Fuck your optimism, man," Pyre finished.

"Fuck MY optimism!? My optimism just saved my ass," Manx said.

"No. What saved your ass was ME," Pyre said, pointing to himself. "Every time. All the time. And then you come along and tell me 'oh, we just have to make it through here.' Get back up, get back up, Pyre. We're not done. Get your ass killed."'

"Pyre... What happened?" Manx asked in a sad tone.

"I got sick of this. I thought you supported me. I thought we were supposed to work together. Every time, you lifted me up. I thought we were invincible," Pyre said.

"We are. We are. Absolutely," Manx whispered with guilt.

"Not true. We aren't invincible. You made me think we were. I guess we aren't. Thanks for that, Max. Thank you," Pyre said.

Angela would not comment. Instead, she made a call to the original Army of Two.

"Really, Angela? You want me to talk to tri-legs and twig boy? Alright. Rios, hold my beer," Salem said, sighing and debating which one to contact first.


	12. Chapter 12

Note: This chapter might be weird. I'm trying to make this work. We'll see how I do. This has taken a lot of time, so please enjoy.

**Chapter 12 **

Salem picked up the radio and stared at it. Why did these kids need so much maintenance? Where were the self-sufficiency and know-how? Well, that came with experience. The pair seemed to have effectively split up, meaning it was Salem's job to fix it. He decided to call Pyre first.

"Hey, skinny Minnie. What's going on?" Salem asked.

"Salem? Why are you talking to me?" Pyre asked.

"Just giving old Weaver a break. You in the middle of something?" Salem asked.

"No!" Pyre shouted as two pickups full of militia members pulled up. Then the shots rang out.

"That sounds rough. Better find cover," Salem said.

"I know, I know," Pyre said as he ran, threw a grenade, and fired back. One of the pickups was history.

"Where's triple-legs?" Salema asked, wanting to get this over with.

"Had to bounce," Pyre responded casually as he finished off a few militia members.

"Ya seem fine," Salem said as Pyre circled and finished off the machine gun.

"Yup," Pyre snapped.

"So you don't need help? You're just gonna be on your own? No Max? Die out there alone?" Salem asked.

Pyre hadn't thought about it. "I guess from the looks of it."

"All right. I did my best for ya, Weaver. Good luck, Mirko," Salem said, getting off the comms and leaving Pyre wondering what Angela told Salem.

Manx, meanwhile, was in a different situation. And Salem found him regardless. The one person he probably didn't want to talk to right now. The apparent now diplomat of company disputes and newbie to the world of adult behavior and maturity. The person who knew more about beer than he did how to dress or file a tax return. But, Salem supposed that if Rios wasn't going to be mature, he would be.

"Hey, half-ball. How's it goin'?" Salem asked.

"Salem? What's a half ball?" Manx asked.

"The way you act, I'd swear you only have one ball. I have a hard time remembering if you're a man," Salem confessed.

"So you're saying I'm a girl?" Manx asked.

"Yup. Sometimes. How are things?" Salem asked.

"A little rough. Pyre's gone, I found an outpost, just gotta crack it," Manx said.

"You know why he's gone?" Salem asked, wanting to get the conversation done.

"Why?" Manx asked a bit bummed and confused.

Salem said something Manx missed, then "The get back up mentality pisses me off. Why do you think Rios and I are at each other's throats?"

"Because there is very little actual support?" Manx asked as he looked out over Kosovo.

"Absolutely. Rios is a nice enough guy, he's just mission first, talk later. I know you support Pyre, but you've gotta do more than try to keep him in the mission," Salem said.

"Whaddya mean?" Manx asked.

"Let him think about him. Remind him you've got his back and leave it. Support is not constantly reminding someone you're there. Subtle is good, too," Salem said.

"Okay... Like what?" Manx asked.

"I don't know what works for Pier, but a cold beer suddenly and sitting nearby helps," Salem said. "Men don't need to always be reminded others are rooting for them. The subtle reminder helps and if he needs you, he'll find you."

"So what is it with you and Rios that makes it not work?" Manx asked.

"Well, Rios is very focused on the good and bad of what we do. That matters, can't fault him. But when he thinks of me and doesn't just leave me in the dust like in Shanghai, it means a lot. Treat Pyre as a person, not a machine that has to run," Salem said. "Keeping him happy isn't for use as a tool. He's a person and if he's half as girly as you are, then every little bit helps."

"So treat him like a person. Just use subtlety and let him do what he needs to do?" Manx asked.

Salem didn't bother to finish the comment. Manx didn't ask again.

"Exactly. Bring something to the table. Like with Rios, I'm the crazy can of whoop-ass and he's the lightning rod. He points at it, I can take it down. Now, you're a girl, so you're probably the rational one. Pier seems to be the whoop-ass. And despite everything wrong with us, Rios and I are a team with a long, shared history. We'll make it work, even when he leaves me for dead," Salem lamented, recalling Shanghai.

"When was that?" Manx asked.

"Shanghai. Rios shot me and thought saving the civvies was the best thing to do. Maybe, but I paid for it. My fucking price! Do NOT put Pier through that or he's gone for good," Salem said. "He's first. Then it's civvies. But it's always your brother first, no matter what. Now go get yours back, he's in over his head."

"Thanks, Salem," Manx said gratefully.

"Sure. Now because Rios is bitching," Salem said across the room, "Here's the radio."

"Corporal Cowell, ignore him. He's had a little too much to drink. That Shanghai stuff isn't true," Rios said.

"Sir, I'm not so sure. He seemed pretty serious," Manx said.

"Corporal, you don't doubt me, do you? Civilians come first. Pier is important, but he's a grown man. He has to focus on the mission. It's already hard enough before we bring feelings into this," Rios said quietly.

"I do, sir. Salem made a pretty good case," Manx said as he sat on the hill.

"I was afraid of that. Well look, he spouts off sometimes. I am dunno. I can't control it," Rios said. "Remind Pier he has priorities. And if he lies to me the way he did about his name and identity, we fire him. I don't want to make our work any worse than it has to be."

"I'm sure," Manx said sarcastically.

Salem heard. "Fight, fight, fight!"

"Corporal, are you talking back to me?" Rios asked.

"I guess I am," Manx said.

"Corporal! Corporal! Listen when I talk to yo-" Rios said, hearing his end get muted.

"Oh, damn. One of my picks grew a pair," Salem laughed.

"What did you tell him?" Rios said, as though he was ready to kill Salem.

"That his partner comes first. Rios, I love ya man... But we have shit to talk about," Salem said, referencing what Rios was afraid of. Shanghai.

"I did what I had to do. Did you also turn Pier into a Salem?" Rios asked.

"Ya know what? Fuck you! I tried to do some good, and you undo it. You leave me to die, don't support me, and then get surprised when I see your game? You always manipulate me, bring me along for another life or death trip, then ask yourself 'are we the good guys, Salem?'"

"Salem, I couldn't make that call. You know that. Civilians were on the line. They don't deserve to suffer," Rios said.

"So what? I realized that I should be more important to you. You're more important to me than those civs. Every time, you or them, I choose you. So when you don't choose me, I feel betrayed. 'Cause here's you, the only guy I would kill for and die for. And I find out that that's a one-way street. So yeah, I turned them into Salems. Because at least a Salem, or I, have your ass."

"Salem quit acting like a child," Rios scolded.

"No. I won't. We have shit to talk about. Until you can grow up and stop trying to debate whether or not a job gets you in trouble, I'll be right here. Come back whenever we can have a real-man talk," Salem said.

"You're acting ridiculous, Salem," Rios said, walking off while Salem went off to scrounge up more beer.

Meanwhile, back at the HQ, Tab and Bushwhack were going through problems of their own.

"No matter what you're thinkin' and I know the cost is high, to go through all that hell on earth, and see your best friend die... To feel the world's against you... And the headlines say you're done-" Bushwhack sang.

"Will you quit that? It's stuck in my head already! What is that even about!?" Tab complained.

"The Bush War. Edmond was in it," Bushwhack said matter-of-factly.

"Ok... We need to make a new deal. I know you don't wanna hear me sing AC/DC and I don't want to hear you sing John Edmond," Tab said.

"Please don't scream sing," Bushwhack said, recalling Brian Johnson's style.

"I won't. We have to talk this out," Tab said. And so they did.

Back in Kosovo, Manx had to figure out where Pyre was. The man was alone, probably freezing, and lost. He had only his weapons and damaged mask to defend him. If he was just walking around the country, that was a problem. Manx marked down the compound and went off to find his partner. The GPS suggested Pyre was on top of him. A few feet away. Manx looked down. Sure enough, Pyre was moving in toward the compound and had missed him entirely. Manx snuck down, turning on the radio.

He was behind Pyre in a moment. "Hey. You scouted it too, huh?"

"Yup. Going in," Pyre said.

"This is the front door. You sure?"

"I am. You with me? We can sort out our shit later."

"Always. Lead on," Manx said.

They sidled up to a fence. There were massive sheds, a big open gray area, and a massive barrack-looking building near them. They saw a line of APCs come out and they stayed out of sight. The high barbed wire fence didn't beg for visitors as a man armed in heavy gear and a machine gun walked around the corner. Pyre began looking for spots with give in the fence, cutting the weak spots, and making a hole big enough to go through. A flag for the Dodik's aspiring country flew high in the middle of the compound.

"Did Salem talk to you?"

"Yup. You too?"

"Yeah. Made a good case... Are we good?"

"We're good. We have stuff to talk about, though."

"I understand. What did ya think of Rios?"

"Rios is an a-hole. Salem's gotta have some issues. A guy like that doesn't just put up with the berating and lack of support. He whine about the job?" Pyre asked, then "Because as harsh as this is, Rios has gotta grow up. This isn't Kindness Inc. You don't see what we do and stay a good guy."

Manx just nodded. He said nothing and nodded. The situation seemed to be resolved. Alright. Why spend any more time on it? Pyre would let him know when there was something to talk about.

The sun was setting on another day in Kosovo. Right as they were trying to breach a compound. The guard with the machine gun walked back around as the light level drained fast. The orange, purple, and yellow shone beautifully against the hills surrounding the compound as the sun dipped down in the sky. The duo stopped what they were doing and took the time to appreciate it. What a wonderful place this country was, despite the fact a military-grade, wannabe state was here to take it.

Pyre watched and Manx went through the hole.

"Clear," Manx said as he looked around and let Pyre in. "Lead on, a unit with heavy armor sighted."

"Acknowledged. Closing hole," Pyre said as he placed the fence back as best he could.

"Guys, whatever's going on, it j-jams-" Angela said into the comms as her signal was cut off.

"Well, we know Dodik is here," Manx joked.

"That place is putting out a lot of- of- chatter," Angela said as her words were sporadically cut off. "Clear it out. The press might be able to-"

"Great. Now we're helping the press. Wanna go break buncha laws of war?" Pyre asked.

"Haven't we been doing that for a week now?" Manx asked. "And I think this is a comms base."

"Probably."

"Ok. Check your fire, I do NOT want to alert that heavy. Let's break into that."

"I've got your six."

They proceeded to a small shed. They noticed a pager on an outside guard who was checking in.

"Those men are alarmed. Kill anyone in the compound, it- It goes off!" she shouted, trying to beat the minor interference. "They detect the guard's pulse dropping and call for backup. So that can't happen."

After the guard went around a corner, the two men proceeded in and Manx picked the door, opening it and watching as Pyre shot inside. They quietly closed it behind them as Pyre counted guards and armaments. Angela was, by now, completely static. There would be no help.

Manx took the first guard and put his hand over his mouth, knocking him out, and calmly hid the radio.

"Two more. Be careful. I'm going for that one. Move on my mark." and some seconds later, "Mark."

Silently and deliberately, the two men moved and put their hands on the mouths of the guards, restraining them and knocking them out via pressure points. They hid the radios. The guards were zip-tied and would remain unconscious and almost impossible to find unless a patrol was unusually through or the alarm went off.

"Alright, we've got this. Check that shed over there."

Manx did as Pyre suggested. Pyre watched as Manx dashed and again picked the lock. No one was in there, but there were a wide-open area and several cars parked. There were also a few toolboxes. Manx opened them as Pyre checked the cars. They found an AK 47 which Manx took and loaded. They found another radio as well.

And then he saw it. An armored car. A mounted machine gun. Pyre grinned from ear to ear. It was a look that Manx knew very well by now. Despite the bulletproof ballistic mask, at least.

"So. Do we have a death wish?"

"Yup!" Pyre shouted.

Manx noticed what he thought was semtex. And C4. It was at that moment he remembered an old trick. And that was when the work began. Manx moved as quickly as he could while Pyre checked out the armored vehicle.

Looking out, the largest building in the compound was visible. Pyre looked at Manx and pointed. He nodded after finishing setting up the car and his detonator. They quietly looked again and ran out, avoiding crunching in the snow.

"This one's unlocked. After you."

Manx opened the door and strode in. It was dark, completely. He couldn't see his hand in front of his face. Luckily, after feeling around, he found the flashlight. After saying a brief prayer, it turned on. It was then that several hostages made themselves very apparent.

"Pyre. Hostages. Also, check that computer," Manx said, pointing.

Pyre obeyed as Manx began untying people. The computer, oddly enough, was unprotected as Pyre looked around. And then he went to the last open document. Even these thugs were not strangers to the power of Microsoft Word.

"Dodik..." he mumbled with annoyance.

"Dodik?"

"Yup. He's got a speech. Mitrovica, tomorrow morning."

"Well, then we go."

A guard walked through the open door, radio on. He turned on the light. And then the masked figures, occupied with their task, didn't see him. But he quickly remedied that with a shout in Serbian.

"Company."

"Yup. Always with these dickheads."

"Put your hands up. I won't ask again," the man said as he called in on the radio.

"We're fucked?"

"Yup," Manx reassured his partner.

The man began searching Manx. And then he shoved him. Hard. Manx fell to the floor as the guard began cuffing him and held his gun at Pyre.

"Easy."

He got up from cuffing Manx, turned to Pyre, and grinned. "Finally. We have you."

He began searching, holding the pistol up. Pyre didn't flinch. He lowered the gun briefly and Pyre snapped into action!

The man couldn't react fast enough. He fired the gun twice in the air! Pyre had him in a chokehold, then whipping the pistol into the back of his head. He went out almost instantly.

"Now that the whole compound's been alerted, what now?"

"Armored car?" Pyre simply asked. Manx could see the grin coming a mile away.

They ran to the vehicle shed immediately. Manx started up his contraption as Pyre took cover behind the armored vehicle. He watched in amazement as Manx drove to an enemy entrenchment that was just populated with the militia. No sooner had they readied themselves when the red Toyota had found them.

He jumped out at the last moment! The position was engulfed in flames! He ran back, bullets whizzing past as he occasionally returned fire with the nearest militiamen. He got to the car.

"So! How was your little trip, asshole!?"

"Come on! We planned that!"

"Planned!? If we get outta here, I'll shove a planned up your ass!"

"That doesn't work that way!" Manx corrected him.

"Oh really!?"

"Nope! You meant plan and given it's not a physical object, you'd need to find something else! Now get in the damn car!" Manx ordered.

"Oh, so THAT'S a plan!" Pyre shouted.

"I think you meant planned! You got any better ideas!?"

"SURE!"

"What'd that be!?"

"I dunno! I didn't think you actually expected me to have one!"

"I sorta figured. Just get this thing moving!" Manx shouted back.

Pyre got inside, found the correct spot, and started the old beast. Manx found the gunner's seat and began manning the cannon. Despite the fact the M-80A was from the late 1970s, it wasted no time starting up.

They raced as fast as they could! With a helicopter on them and three other armored cars, they were keen to create distance. And then came the river.

"So, any ideas!?" Pyre shouted to Manx.

"The plan wasn't really supposed to get this far!"

"Are you serious!?"

"Well, I can't usually predict when we get in a chase, Pyre! I didn't expect them to have more vehicles!"

"We're coming up on a lake! Maybe now would be the time!"

"You should come up on some driving skills! Keep moving!" Manx commanded.

And then they met the water. But, they didn't sink like a stone. In fact, they kept moving. Decently fast, too.

"Is this... Is this amphibious!?"

"Yup! Keep going, I'll get the heli!"

As the submerged vehicle exited, Manx aimed up at the low-flying helicopter. And he let machine gun fire go into the rotor. Much to the pilot's chagrin, it ceased functioning. The helicopter fell down into the river, still emitting a ball of flames!

"Yes! Keep going! You can shove a planned up my ass later!"

"Ok, so I misspoke!" Pyre shouted back to the other man as they found a safe place to leave the vehicle and traverse the terrain.


End file.
